Body and Soul
by opera.74
Summary: How Rumpelstiltskin and Belle saw their relationship as it unfolded over the four seasons of OUAT? Their love story is told from two points of view. Recent UPDATE: 5A damaged the canon a LOT; I am ignoring things like origins of Dark Ones and the idea that Dark Ones don't sleep: we saw Rumple sleep before. And the love story?.. Well it continues.
1. Chapter 1

BODY AND SOUL

1

It was Her.

There, in the middle of the dimly lit and crowded room, She stood out, even though in reality she was standing in the background. In the sea of anxious faces, turned towards him in reaction to his sneering greeting, Her face shone, making everything else fade out and blur.

It was Her. The One. The girl he never hoped to find, though somehow always knew he would. Or the other way round. The girl for whom he always waited and for whom he searched eagerly, forever telling himself that she doesn't exist anywhere but in his imagination, and even if she did exist, she wouldn't be destined for him. How could she? He was not meant to love and to be loved – nobody ever loved him, and in his heart of hearts he knew no one ever would. No, that's not right. In his heart of hearts he always hoped the opposite, hoped that love will come into his life, and will change it. He just disciplined himself not to entertain these futile hopes. He is a very clever person, and always was – he lived by his wits, there was a time when his intelligence used to be his only armor against the harsh world. He knew his ever-hopeful heart is a worse enemy then any outside force. The heart is foolish. It always dreams of the impossible, and it can make you forget what you really are and therefore make you weak and eventually destroy you. So he always silenced his heart when it whispered to him of hopes and dreams. His mind was always in control. Well, nearly always.

If someone – anyone – ever asked him: 'Do you hope to find love?' he would have laughed this person in the face. And stifle the pang of hope that stirred in his soul at the very sound of the word. Yet it was ever there, this hope. He just never let it into his consciousness, never acknowledged it to himself. But it was always there, alive and gleaming, making him commit stupid mistakes and invest unsuitable women with great significance, making him angry and bitter at disappointments. It is very easy to tell yourself to expect nothing, but it is much easier said then done. However wisely you tell yourself there is nothing to expect, you always do hope for something – such is human nature. And when your hopes are crushed, and when your expectations are not met, you are hurt and you leash out on the world, trying to punish it for cruelty. You should punish yourself for your own foolishness, really, but you rarely stop to think of that. You strike first, and think later, usually while looking in horror at what you've done.

And in his case, what he can do is usually truly horrible.

Yet, with this dangerous hope ever present, in the depth of his heart, hidden from the world and especially from himself, it is funny how he could never predict that something important, something life-changing is going to happen. Oh, he often had this feeling of premonition, of alertness, of readiness for a miracle. It seemed he could smell it in the air, like the coming rain. He could wake up, get out of the house, walk – limp, later, – up to the hills with his sheep, look at the damp sky, feel the wind on his face, and then catch himself thinking: 'It is going to happen today'. He could never explain what that 'it' was. He just knew it was coming, knew it was near. The miracle, the magical 'something', that would fill his miserable life with light and meaning. Yet it never happened. He was always wrong. By the end of the day the heady feeling would be gone and forgotten. He would come home beaten and weary, knowing that life is what it is, not what we wish it to be. It was so long ago when he lived in a dark hut in his poor village. It is so now, when he lives in a dark castle on gloomy hills. He knows well enough not to trust it, that elation that comes with the wind and dies as the wind.

Yet today, there was no elation, no expectation of anything. He came here, to this pitiful little kingdom, out of sheer boredom. Their request was so small, so easily answered there was actually no need for him to come at all. Defeating the ogres for him is routine; he could have done it without moving from his comfortable chair. Yet he was bored, and he was so highly amused by the offer of gold (just how stupid must this king be, offering _him_ gold?), that he came over just for a bit of fun. To tease these people here, to sneer at them, to show off a bit – he does love an audience, – to make them sweat a little before granting them what they asked for; that's what he came for. One must amuse oneself, sometimes.

He certainly didn't come here looking for love.

Yet he came into the room, he sat on the throne, and he uttered his first sneering words, and they turned to him, startled, and he just started to enjoy himself, feeding on their fear, and there She was, standing amongst them, solemn and silent, looking at him with those incredible eyes. Not scared or intimidated like the rest of them; no, she looked baffled and curious, as if not quite believing her eyes, as if trying to figure out what on earth That Thing is, sitting on her father's throne, giggling.

He didn't think that – he could never _think_ that, consciously, – it came as a certain, absolute knowledge, and it came surely and wholesomely, in one piece, as if a rock was planted in his soul, or as if a voice from above sounded in his mind, addressing his heart directly, bypassing all rational thoughts and telling him: 'This is Her. You have found her'.

And he panicked.

He is scared, now, as never before in his life. She exists – that fact alone is enough to shatter his peace of mind, the foundations of his world. He has found her, and recognized her, their lives collided – the impossible has happened. Yet the fact that she exists doesn't really change anything – doesn't mean anything. There is no guarantee that their meeting will have the same significance to her as it has to him. Guarantee? No, there is simply _no way_ it will mean anything to her. He has found her, that's true. He knows that he will love her till his dying breath – though it doesn't feel like he loves her now, he is just too shocked for anything of the sort. But nobody said that she would love him. Why should she? _How_ could she?

So, the fact that she exists doesn't promise anything – it brings no hope, no bright future. It is a blow, rather. A cruel trick of fate: to give him the proof of the reality of his personal miracle, yet to devoid him of all hope.

He knows he must not hope. He knows he must calm his madly beating heart. Nothing happened; it's just him, and his stupid dreaming soul; all this is just his problem, and shouldn't concern her. He must leave this place, now. He must leave her in peace. He must flee from her and try to forget that she is real.

Yet she is standing there, in the middle of the crowd, and she looks at him with those eyes of hers, looks in bewilderment at him prattling rubbish, barely registering his own words, giggling like a nervous teenager, camping out as never before, showing off his bravura image in a truly overblown fashion. She must think him mad. She must laugh at him, inwardly. She must despise him. She must fear him.

Yet how can she fear him when he is making a complete fool of himself?

Oh, those eyes of hers, bright and blue as the sky in the mountains that he roamed in his youth. There is such light in them. They shine so. They are so warm. They promise so much.

Her skin is so white – it must be soft like a wing of a butterfly, velvety and so delicate that to even think of touching it brings tears to his eyes. Her hair is so rich; the auburn locks are so shiny. To run his fingers through it, to feel those silky treads caress his skin… Oh what sweet, sweet madness.

How can he leave without her, now that he had found her? How can he _live_ without her?

Yet how can he have her? How can he ask for her? His ugliness and his curse aside, how can he actually get her to come with him? And he must do that – he knows, suddenly, that he has to take her with him. He must have her on his own. God knows what he'll do with her – he'd never gather the courage or the stupidity to actually court her, but he must have her near him, even if just to have a chance to look at her, sometimes. She must come to his castle for, if he leaves her now, without her he will perish. And he will never gather the courage to come back for her. If not now, then never – once he is away from her, he will talk himself into the impossibility of all that, again. He will convince himself it was a mistake. He will believe it is all hopeless.

Yet now, when she is so near, he cannot resist. He cannot stop himself.

As if from a distance, he hears himself saying in this nasty whining tone he affirms when talking to people with whom he trades: 'What I want is something a bit more special. My price is… her'. He is pointing his clawed finger at the girl. Her father answers with a flat 'No', yet he doesn't sound too sure. What a filthy man – he is indeed ready to trade her! Her oafish fiancée states the obvious: 'The young lady is engaged to me'. Oh, this boy is strangely not as stupid as he looks – he understands what is going on… Or was it just a lucky guess?

She doesn't say anything. She only lowers her eyes, momentarily, than looks up at him. She is disturbed, and annoyed. She doesn't like him, or find him amusing. She is apprehensive.

But she is not scared.

She is the only person in the room who is not scared – of ogres, and of him.

What is he thinking, trying to take this strange and fearless girl with him? Is that wise, to let such a baffling creature get close to him?

Yet he cannot stop himself – not now. He is completely carried away.

'I wasn't asking if she were engaged!' Can they _all_ hear just how false and forced the irony in his voice sounds? 'I am not looking for _love_…' God, it is getting worse and worse… Nobody in the room mentioned _'love'_; he is just giving himself away… 'I am looking for a… caretaker for my rather large estate'.

Now were did _that_ come from? What kind of a stupid reason is that? He is The Dark One. The greatest wizard in the land. What would he need a caretaker for? He can defeat the ogres with one thought – surely he can clean his _estate_, however large it is, without a caretaker?

They will ask him that now, surely. But they don't. Perhaps they are complete idiots. Or they are just scared mindless. Whatever it is, no one disputes his wild suggestion, and he presses on: 'It is her – or no deal'.

Her stupid father recovers from shock and refuses. Her stupid fiancée tries to shield her. She lowers her eyes, again.

He makes to leave, numbly.

He did try. He can't force them. It is their choice. Well, he _can_ force them, but he will not, for they are right in refusing him. He has asked the impossible, and it was deeply insulting – it was too much, even for him, with his reputation of ruthlessness.

It was all pointless and hopeless, anyway.

He is almost out of door. He is going to go and leave her behind. Just a couple more steps.

And then he hears her sigh, and feels her eyes upon him – it is amazing how he can feel her looking, as if her gaze was a physical thing.

'Wait!' she says.

He turns to face her.

Oh God, she is so close to him. She looks him straight in the eye – defiantly. She swallows – of course, she _is_ scared, she is just very good at hiding it, and now, when she had a closer look at him, she is more scared then before. What is he hoping for? Why is he doing this? He must stop, he must change the conditions of the deal – he is not evil, not really, he actually wants to help those fools, for ogres are menace and their request for help was very reasonable.

But, even if he really wanted to negotiate further, he has no time to speak, for the girl gives a little decisive nod, and says: 'I will go with him'.

Her family makes a fuss – understandably.

He giggles like a fool, hoping that it will somehow come over as a sound of malicious glee, which is expected of him, and not as a nervous expression of released tension that it really is. He didn't realize just how tense he was, just how much he wanted it all to turn in his favor, somehow. He must have been holding his breath, he actually feels weak in the knees now.

She argues with her protectors. She makes a stand. She looks at him – searchingly, as if trying to see in his face some sign of normality, some reason to trust him.

She looks so fragile and strong and so beautiful.

'I shall go'.

He cannot do this to her. It is pointless. He has been imagining things, and he is subjecting this girl to something awful – for no reason other than his fickle illusions.

He must scare her off, warn her, he must make her go back on their deal…

'It is forever, dearie'.

He sounds disgusting. Good. That's precisely what he must seem to her – disgusting, impossible to endure a single moment with, let aside an eternity.

It is just that he has a terrible feeling that his eyes show her something else. She is so close to him that he can feel the warmth of her skin, and smell her hair; he can see the dark eyelashes over those magical eyes. She is so sweet, and he is so enchanted – she must see right through him, surely, see how overwhelmed he is, how completely her beauty defeats him in his self-imposed ugliness… Oh, the sadness of it.

She certainly looks a bit confused. His sinister act is not working, not on her, anyway – she is not scared any more, but she seems to be searching for something in his face, again. He confused her: he was sneering and evil, just a moment ago, but he is sad and serious now. She probably tries to figure him out, and she can't.

No wonder – he barely understands himself at this moment.

'My family, my friends… they will all live?'

How earnest she is. And how impossibly young.

Never, ever in his life has he seen anything as lovely as this girl.

'You have my word'. He did try to say that with a hint of his impish irony. But he came across with a hint of misplaced gentleness.

She nods – she is such a child, all her actions have the air of solemnity affected by kids when they are promising to keep a secret of a hidden treasure, or some such trifle that means a world to a young soul. 'Then you have mine. I shall go with you, forever'.

Be still, oh foolish heart. It is nothing – she just promised to come to your castle, not to share your life. But her eyes are locked with yours, and the word 'forever' rings in the stillness of the room, and gathers a full and deep significance.

She has sworn herself to him, right here and now. She might never even fully understand what it means. He would never take advantage of her promise. But the deal is done, and it cannot be undone; he, always aware of the magic flowing in the air around him, felt it – the subtle change in the texture of nature. Magic happened, and it was not his doing. It was something beyond his will. She did it when she said the words. And he can feel the effects, right now. He can feel how the two of them – the girl and himself – are drawn from the rest of the people in the room. They are detached from the world, bound together and separated from others. It is as if there is a wall between them and other people, between them and the rest of the world – transparent, yet impossible to penetrate.

He is frightened, now. He knows how magic works, only too well. And it scares him to feel the presence of magic that is bigger than his – magic that is beyond his control.

Magic comes with a price, and he wonders what price the two of them will have to pay.

'Deal', he squeals, trusting the giggling sound to hide his uneasiness.

Her father protests, again. He is quite rude – he calls him a beast. He is past being offended, though. He just makes a face at the pompous fool.

A weird lightness enters his heart; he feels a certain hysterical gaiety. He has gotten himself into something that he cannot fully grasp yet. Something changed, today, and forever, for him and for this girl. And she knows it, too – feels it, somehow. He can hear this mystical awareness in the tone of her voice when she says to her father: 'It has been decided'.

Whatever it was, it is done now.

He sides with the girl: 'She is right. The deal is struck'.

Ah, that is more like it – the little twist of magical treads that he feels now is of his doing. His deal, his simple and understandable deal, is indeed done – the ogres are gone. He has fulfilled his contract. Now he can take away his prize.

He gestures to the girl that they must go, and casts a final glance at the people they leave behind. How full of hatred are their faces. Well, he cannot be offended with it – not today. Today he probably deserves this hatred. He did do something awful.

Yet the guilt, the uncertainty and the uneasiness all disappear when, leading the girl through the door, he briefly touches her back.

She doesn't shun from him, as he expected her to. She walks by his side calmly and confidently, as if it is completely natural to have his leathery paw on her back.

Perhaps she didn't notice. She is probably too shocked to notice anything. But he… Oh, he is so very aware of her. In this brief touch, he felt the warmth of her skin, the silky smoothness of her hair, which is softer then the silk of her dress. Just a brief touch, just a fleeting moment, but it came flooding back to him, this knowledge that what is happening to him is inevitable. It was meant to be. It is Her. The One. He never had it before, this very physical feeling of… belonging. This girl, she is just so very right for him. She was made for him. When he touched her, he knew – he felt – that hers is the skin he was meant to touch, and no other will ever do now.

It is funny, actually. He has spent so many years longing for her, dreaming of her, somewhere deep in his soul, he was so hopeless and frustrated at not finding her, and so angry with himself for ever wishing to find her. But of course he couldn't find her – she just wasn't born yet. But now she is here, with him, this exquisite child with a brave heart. And he doesn't really know what he'll do with her, yet right now he cannot be bothered to think about it. There will be time for that. At this instant, he doesn't want to think. He wants to live, briefly, in the glow of untainted gladness brought on by her presence – by her very being.

He has her, and that is all that matters.

She said 'Forever' to him, she looked into his eyes and said it, and something in the world changed. This is all that matters now.

He looks down at her bended head, at the whiteness of her shoulders, at her locks and her long lashes, and he smiles. She is so youthful and beautiful, it is breathtaking.

Her name is Belle, which means 'beautiful', and there never was a better-suited name.


	2. Chapter 2

2

By the time they reached the Dark Castle, he has regained some measure of sanity, and clearly saw that he has made a terrible mistake.

He summoned his carriage, the magical one that drives without a groom, for he did not want to disturb the texture of magic any more tonight with tricks such as transporting them to his abode in the cloud of smoke, for example. So, they traveled by carriage, and it was a long journey, and not a pleasant one. They were sitting opposite each other, and in the dark interior of the carriage he was acutely aware of her presence, and of her gloomy mood. The rush of excitement, the heroic elation that made her go with him must have left her, and their aftermath was depressed bewilderment, and fear. She didn't know what would happen to her now, what he'll do with her; she was lost and forlorn.

He felt her gaze as she was stealing shifty glances on him, trying to access him. What she saw obviously couldn't comfort or reassure her. He is a monster, and he did wonder at the courage it took her to actually sit with him so close without screaming and trying to escape. Well, she gave him her word, and as she is a princess, her word obviously means a lot. Yet he had no doubt that she regretted her decision bitterly, and he knew he couldn't do anything to comfort her.

Hours had passed in the un-companionable silence, and he knew it was never going to work. She would always fear him and be repulsed by him. She will never see in him anything other then the evil imp who took her away from her family. And she will be right, actually, for he is nothing but a malicious horror, as dark inside as he is ugly in appearance, and there is nothing else to see in him apart from his black nature. He was a fool to take her, and he made a fool of himself, and he was ashamed to think of all the bright and blazing hopes he felt when he was making her come with him. And he knew that if she stays close to him, he will make an even bigger fool of himself – he understood, only too well, that hopes and dreams will return, and he will do silly things, and the girl will stop fearing him and will come to despise him. This he will not be able bear. He had to do something to create a barrier between them, to scare her so much that she'd never get close enough to know him and his weaknesses. He was so vulnerable before her that he had to turn her away completely, or else she'd destroy him.

The easiest thing, of course, would have been to simply let her go, but this thought never crossed his mind.

What he thought of instead was a plan: to behave as nasty as he possibly can. Her father called him a beast. Excellent, then, he will _be_ a beast. He will act in a truly beastly fashion.

Thus, when they finally arrived to the castle, he dragged her along gloomy corridors, ignoring her pleading questions about her future fate, and promptly put her in the dungeon, locking the door and sneering at her cries and sobs.

That would teach her not to play a hero in the future.

Let her cry and curse him in the dampness of her cell. Let her hate him and think him a monster. It is much safer then to let her look into his eyes, and perhaps see there something that might place him completely in her power.

She doesn't need to know that, after locking her in the cell, he stayed by her door for hours, listening to her sobs and, later, to her sleeping breathing. She doesn't need to know that, when he finally forced himself to retreat to his chamber, he briefly touched the smooth wood of the heavy door separating them, wishing it were her skin.

In the morning, for want of any reasonable explanation of her presence in the castle, he did make her go around doing domestic duties. Of course he could clean the place himself, without any human help, he could simply think the dust away, but he never bothered, and the place was filthy. There actually was a fair amount of things for her to do – scrubbing the floors, washing, cooking.

He explained her duties sitting at the end of the long table in his dining room, never actually used for dining, for he rarely ate normal meals – lonely people seldom do. She was fussing with a tea tray while he talked, and he found twisted pleasure in teasing her. She was so collected, so determined to be calm and efficient; after her night in the dungeon she obviously wanted to please him as best she could. She looked so touchingly sweet, he felt he might lose his determination to be cruel to her. So he scared her, momentarily, mentioning skinning little children, and she dropped one of the teacups, and chipped it. And then she nearly collapsed – kneeling, holding the cup up to him in trembling fingers, she apologized prettily, but her voice quivered, and she was on the verge of tears. He overdid his evil act, obviously. He wanted to reassure her, to spring from his chair and to help her get up from the floor. Yet from where he was sitting he had an excellent view of her cleavage, and the sight of her bosom, heaving in distress, made him think of things that were very contradictory to his decision to stay as far away from her as possible. In fact, it made him want to be as close to her as possible; to touch that very white and very soft skin, to take the cup from her delicate fingers and brush them gently, pressing her small hand to his chest, while laying a finger of his free hand on her parted lips to silence her apology. And then he realized that he should not stand up from his chair, any time soon, for he was wearing rather tight pants and, if he stood up, his reaction to her kneeling position would, well, show. Embarrassed, he inwardly cursed his dirty mind and his lonely life – what has he come to, if just a glimpse of her naked skin excites him out of any proportion?

He waved her apology away; 'It's just a cup', he said. She nodded, bit her lip, and went on with her duties. He cocked his head on the side, following her retreating figure with a long gaze, caught himself staring at her naked arms, holding the tray, and cursed himself again.

By the middle of the day he was surprised to find that she was actually quite good at doing the things he demanded. He asked her how did that happened – was her miserable father so poor that he made her do the housework?

She raised an eyebrow at that spiteful remark, looked at him sternly and explained in a polite and cold voice that she was brought up as a princess, and that means she learned how to do everything that is asked of her servants, for she must gain their respect. _And_ she must know how things are done so that she can control if they are done properly. With that, she turned on her heels and proudly walked to the kitchen to make him some lunch. Soup, it turned out to be later.

He was left staring into the space were she just stood, feeling humble and chastened. She was so much better than him, in every way. She was young and beautiful, brave and of noble birth. He, even with all his powers and affected gestures, is just a peasant, and always will be. She is a princess, and remains a princess even with a broom or a bowl of soup in her hands.

By the end of the day he was completely convinced he made a terrible mistake. He should never have taken the girl with him. Her presence invaded the castle so much he felt crowded. He seemed to be always in her way – he never knew just how intimidating a woman could be when she is absorbed in cleaning. She was everywhere – dusting and swiping, leaving the sweet scent of her skin and hair everywhere she went, and it was impossible not to look at her. He was unable to concentrate on his work. He couldn't think, couldn't spin, he seemed to be spending all his time listening to her light steps or the gentle sound the train of her silk dress made as it drugged on the floor. She fed him three hot meals. He brought tea to his study, and put the tray on the table where he was making a potion, almost tripping it over. He nearly screamed at her, and yet how could he, when she was standing before him all modest and sweet, casting her eyes to the floor, bending her head and asking if he needed anything else tonight? He grumbled a negative, and she marched to her cell.

And then, from behind the locked door, he heard her crying again.

And he felt like ripping his own heart out, so as not to feel anything, for to listen to her distress was truly unbearable, and to change anything between them was impossible.


	3. Chapter 3

3

Her family often teased her for being a dreamer. They were warriors, all of them, and rarely stopped to think before swinging a sword. They were coarse and direct, their laughter was loud and their steps heavy. She always looked odd amongst them – too small, too quiet, and too beautiful. Of course they doted on her – she was their lovely little princess, yet she did feel sometimes that they didn't think of her as a human being, but as a sort of domestic pet, rather: a pretty kitten, or something like that. It was difficult for her to blend in with them – from the very early days of her life she felt she was somehow a bit brighter than most of the adults around her. Sometimes, staring at the sky at night or sitting by her window listening to the rain (she _loved_ to do that) she would get a feeling that the world is a much greater and complicated place than it seemed at the first glance, that it is a mystery to be explored. The wind on her face felt like a breath of something beyond the obvious. Yet she could never explain that feeling to any of the people close to her. When she'd mention it, they would just say: 'But of course the world is big, you should just cross the mountains to see how vast the next plane is, little Belle', and they would toss her hair, and walk away smiling at the 'silly little princess'. She couldn't make them understand that she meant something beyond mountains and planes and forests. She felt frustrated at not being able to explain herself. At first she thought the problem is with her – she is weird. Then she discovered books and realized that there were other people in the world who knew what she meant, and had similar feelings and thoughts. Only none of them happened to be members of her family. So she read more and more, talking to the people on the pages rather than to her family, and gradually came to think of herself as an essentially lonely person. She knew that none of the things she finds important and exiting interest people around her even in the slightest. Everything that mattered to her, mattered only to _her_, and that was that. So she stopped trying to talk to her family – she kept herself to herself, always escaping to the dream world of her books, were imaginary people understood her.

She was not naïve, she knew that books are books, and the stories in them are made up. She never expected her life to suddenly become like one of the stories. She did not dream of adventures really happening to her, and she did not expect a handsome prince or a dark stranger to enter her life. Her life, her real life, was structured and simple and very predictable. She had a fiancée, and he was a nice young man; nothing exiting, just a very decent fellow, rather like a brother to her. He _was_ almost a brother – a cousin, actually, he was deemed a suitable husband for her because he was close to the family. Her father had no sons, so she was supposed to marry Gaston and bear him children so, when her father died, there would be heirs to the throne – she could not become the queen, but her male descendants could inherit the kingdom. She was content with this arrangement – she knew her duty, and she planned to live a quiet life, helping the men run the state as best as she could, enjoying her simple pleasures, and gathering wisdom from her books. She was, to some extent, a person divided in two; there was a practical, sensible girl living a life amongst the people. And there was a dreamer, yearning for strong emotions and interesting things and adventures. These two girls were aware of their separate existence; they looked at each other with a quiet detachment, akin to the feeling one gets while looking into somebody's lighted window at night: you see life going on there, inside, and you like it and feel fascinated by it, but you just observe without interfering. The two girls living inside her mind were happy together: the practical girl never spoiled the dreamer's fun, and the dreamer never let her imagination run too wild.

She was not happy, perhaps, but she was content with her life. She did not expect it to turn very exiting, yet she never thought it would bring her anything unpleasant, too. She expected her life to run smoothly as an unbroken tread till her dying day. If someone told her that her life will change completely and irrevocably in one instant, she would never have believed it. She would never have believed that she would change it herself – with her own words and actions and decisions.

Yet, when it happened, it seemed like a completely natural thing.

She must have been out of her mind to step forward when that strange creature offered his deal, and agree to it. Perhaps the reason for that sudden action was that she was unbalanced by all the recent troubles – scared of the ogres, worried sick for her father, who seemed to collapse under strain, frustrated at not being able to help the men in any way. Here was her chance to help, to do something, to solve all their problems at once.

Her own promise to come away from her family with… _That_ _thing_ didn't look like a problem then. It was something _she_ was going to do, and she was completely accustomed to the fact that nobody cared what she does, for they never understood her words and actions, anyway. So, when her father and her fiancée voiced their protest, she was surprised and even slightly irritated by them. It was her decision and her problem, why should it concern them? After all, she was doing her duty, protecting the kingdom, as any princess should. Saving the kingdom must have been their priority, as well. They have asked the Dark One for help, they dragged him all the way to their kingdom, and then they started squabbling over the price? Didn't they know how these things are done – didn't they realize that there is always a price for magic? Didn't they know that this person they called in to help always asks for something unexpected? Well, perhaps they did not know that, or never thought, never made a connection between previous cases and their own. One has to be in a habit of thinking to make a connection like that, and none of the men around her were very good at thinking.

And now they were fussing around her, drawing swords, shouting angry words. They were like little kids… What would their swords do to a person who can defeat the ogres? It was ridiculous, really – no wonder he sneered at them. The more they fretted, the more irritated with them she grew. She suddenly saw her life as it was going to proceed if the deal would fall through: the ogres would win, the castle will be destroyed, her father, and most of his people, would be dead. Gaston will save her – he had king's orders to get her away if danger became real. So, she'd have to flee her country with a fiancée she didn't fancy, seek protection in some other kingdom, and live in exile with a husband that she had to marry to provide heirs for the fallen throne. That was not the fate the practical side of her wanted or expected; and the dreamer in her didn't want to observe that fate coming true in silence. This time, just once, the dreamer spoke up, and said that she had a right to make her own decisions.

So it was all a bit of a teenage rebellion, actually. Not a heroic deed, not a conscious sacrifice – these considerations entered her mind, as well, but they were not the real reasons for her actions. They were the reasons she _had_ to honor the offered deal. Her need to act on her own was the reason she _wanted_ to honor it.

Her heart was beating madly, though she tried to look calm, and she felt she had to act quickly, for the Dark One was about to leave. He didn't seem to be very insistent on his conditions and didn't look as if he really needed her for something – it seemed that, asking for her, he acted out of sheer boredom.

She stepped forward to stop him leaving, and spoke to him, and he turned to face her, and she had a first proper look at him, up close.

She couldn't say that she felt frightened, not really. She was just thoroughly shocked. He didn't look scary or very ugly (ogres looked much worse), he was just so very strange. The greenish skin glinted with specs of golden dust. Rumpled locks looked like moss. He was all green and brown and grey, as if he belonged to the forest and was part of it – a gnarled stomp of a tree that came to life, somehow, or some animal that acquired a human voice. Well, the voice didn't sound very human, too – it was more like a sort of screech, not very natural, slightly affected, even.

He was a completely bizarre creature, and she did wonder what did he want from her. He did not look as if he was going to ravish her in the darkness of his castle – he looked much too ironic and detached to even imagine him doing something of the sort. Yet she very seriously doubted him needing a caretaker, either.

She looked into his eyes, trying to figure him out, and thought how strange it was that this weird creature had human eyes. Well, they were not human, really – they were filmy and green and unnaturally still, like the eyes of some reptile that only blinks once in an hour, but their expression was entirely human. There was no mockery in his eyes as he looked at her; on the contrary, he looked a bit sad and very _kind_ as he warned her that their deal was forever, and she didn't feel any danger from him.

So she promised him what he asked for. And, as she pronounced the word 'forever', that's when she felt it – the abrupt change of her destiny. Her life as she knew it was over, at that very instant. The course her life was meant to run – the course on which she married Gaston, had children, lived at home, grew old, read quietly by the fireplace watching her family have fun, that course disappeared from the imaginary landscape of her life, and instead of a comfortable road she found a bleak and vast wilderness of the unknown spreading before her. It was deserted, empty and dark, it was filled with chilly mist, and she knew not where she should go or what she should do. There was only one thing solid and clear in this new and frightening world were she imagined herself – He, The Dark One, was standing by her side. He was the only living thing to keep her company in the darkness. And she couldn't find anything comforting or reassuring in that – she was frightened, she was chilled to the bone by what happened to her. She never felt anything of the sort before, but she guessed: that must have been magic at work. If so, then she was not sure she wanted to have anything to do with it. It felt dangerous.

As her family protested anew, she stood by her… companion and cast him a brief glance. He looked a bit shaken, too. He looked as if something unexpected happened to him as well. She thought it was strange – he was the magician, surely the way magic worked wouldn't disturb him.

She watched her family wearily – she suddenly felt exhausted, ready to drop off her feet. Why were they screaming so, why did her father protest so hotly, insulting the man who came to help him? Nothing could be changed now – even He couldn't change anything. The change that came over her fate, leaving her in a desolate darkness and binding her to this man, could not be undone – she was irrationally sure of that.

She felt a chilly and damp breath of the mist covering her imaginary wilderness as she silenced her father with a sad 'It has been decided'. And then she felt surprisingly hot breath of her new master on the back of her neck (she expected his breath to be cold, somehow), as he came up behind her and whined, grinning at her father: 'You know, she is right. The deal is struck. Oh, congratulations on your little war!'

And with that, he marched her out of door, gently nudging her on the back with an unexpectedly delicate touch of an unexpectedly warm hand.

She felt empty and lost as she walked beside him. She looked at her feet, watching every step.

In her mind, she was just entering the darkness of the wild place her life has become.


	4. Chapter 4

4

As they drove through the night in a magical carriage he summoned, she grew more and more apprehensive. The excitement of the moment when she had made her promise to come to the Dark Castle left her, but the exhaustion and the bleak fear of the unknown remained. She was deeply uneasy. She had no idea what to expect from this man who was now her master. The glimpse of kindness that she saw in his eyes back at her father's castle seemed to be gone entirely. He sat opposite her in the carriage, staring in front of him, apparently lost in thought. He paid her no attention whatsoever, and she felt strangely offended by that. He did ask her to come with him, for some reason – he could have given at least a hint on why did he want her.

She made an effort to compose herself, turning to her sensible side for support and strength. She must not panic; she should try and distance herself from the enormity of the change in her life. It is impossible to analyze what happened, anyway – at least not yet. She must learn more – she wished there was a book on the subject, so that she could consult it. Oh, just imagine it: 'A Comprehensive Guide for Princesses Abducted By Evil Wizards'. Alas, there was no such book – she'd have to use her wits to adjust to the situation as best as she could. And the good way to start is to get to know the man in whose power she placed herself.

She cast furtive glances on him, trying to access him at least outwardly.

The word 'bizarre' kept coming back to her mind. Everything about him was puzzling and overblown and absurd to the extreme, from the color of his skin to the cut of his coat – she had never seen anything remotely like this leathery number decorated with dark frills. It was strangely elegant, though, as if the owner took extreme care with his appearance; it's just that this elegance seemed to come directly from the madhouse. The hair, though greenish in hue, was clean, and it was strange to see such abundance of curls on this wild-looking creature. The hair obscured his face, making it difficult for her to see anything apart from the long and narrow nose and sometimes, when he moved his head and moonlight outlined his features more clearly, his ridiculously long eyelashes. With this nose and those lashes and this… floppy mass of hair he looked to her a bit like a dog – a nervous skinny mongrel, staring into empty air as lost dogs sometimes do before springing into crazed action, running around chasing their tails and barking at everything that moves.

His hands were neatly folded on his knees, right over the left, and she shivered uneasily when she had a closer look at them. They looked like paws, green and leathery and clawed – fingernails long and black and decaying.

'The man looks as if he is rotting alive', she thought. Yet there was no stink of dying flesh – he smelled clean and fresh and… crisp. That, as everything else about him, was puzzling.

All and all, he did not frighten her – that was the conclusion she reached by the end of their journey through the night. In fact his very cold and hostile manner was much more unpleasant than his appearance. And it became worse when they arrived to the castle – he broke his silence and started sneering again, and drugged her to the dungeon, ignoring all her questions and pleas, locked her and went away – she heard him giggling maliciously as he retreated. That was rude and beastly, and that made her angry – he could have at least given her some food and water, he should have offered her some comfort, and she expected to be shown some measure of respect. She was a princess, after all.

But then she remembered that all that was a thing of the past. She was not a princess any more – she belonged to this strange man, and he could do what he pleased with her.

She felt cold, lonely, abandoned and extremely exhausted. She sank to the floor – there was some straw there – and cried bitterly until she cried herself to sleep.

In the morning, he was as nasty and cold as before, but at least she found he has somehow provided her with a jar of fresh water to wash her face. Then he came to unlock the cell, and showed her around the castle, which was indeed vast and dirty (it seemed that his need for a caretaker was genuine), and briskly indicated the things he wanted her to do.

She decided to start with making tea – for her own sake rather then his: he didn't look likely to eat anything, yet she desperately needed some refreshment. Before bringing the tray into the dining room, which was huge and had an entirely unused look, she drank a cup of tea herself: God knows what he'll make her do now; perhaps she wouldn't have time for food.

She felt much better after that cup of tea, and she almost pulled off her 'calm and efficient' act, but then he made a stupid and cruel joke, which made her lose control and drop one of the cups, which was damaged by the fall. She was truly frightened for a second, and she nearly cried with frustration. She stood on her knees in front of him (_not_ out of humility, mind – she knelt to pick up the damned cup!), babbling some apology. And then, suddenly, she saw it again – that glint of kindness in his strange reptilian eyes.

He did not look angry and cold then. He had a dreamy, sad and musing look. And a strange thought came to her regarding his nasty manner; perhaps it is all an act, she thought. Perhaps it is a mask he puts on to conceal something, to keep people away. He is scared of something, this small and dapper and sad man in flashy clothes. He is hiding something.

And the dreamer in her said: 'He is hiding his true self'.

Then the practical girl took over, told the dreamer to shut up and get along with her duties.

It was a busy day – what with cleaning and swiping and some washing and cooking she didn't have a spare moment to think of her situation, and surely not a moment to get really upset. It is amazing how much you can endure when your hands are busy.

She hadn't given much thought to her master, either – she simply had no time. She noticed him out of the corner of her eye while she was working; he seemed strangely idle, and he was always on her way, doing something in the very room that she'd come to clean. 'Doesn't he have anything to do?' she wondered. She always supposed dark wizards were busy folk, but this one just walked from room to room, looking a bit lost. 'May be he is just not used to having someone around the house', thought the practical girl, and added with a hint of malice: 'Good. That will teach him not to abduct princesses he didn't really want'.

'May be he is just lonely', thought the dreamer.

The really unpleasant moment came when, by the end of the day, she found herself in the cell again – alone and cold and tired to the bone. The tears came by they own volition, and she spent some time sitting on her bed of straw, being sorry for herself.

It helped, somehow; her nurse often told her that a good cry is a nice way to relax, and it seemed she was right. She slept peacefully for the rest of the night.


	5. Chapter 5

5

On the next morning she woke up, washed herself with water that mysteriously materialized in her cell again, and looked sadly at her dress. The pretty yellow silk was becoming soiled; the hem was dirty. She should speak to the master about getting her some working clothes – it might please his ego to have a princess cleaning for him, but it is just plain silly to make her do the work wearing her evening dress. But first she'd have to resume her duties. He would probably need his morning tea now. She suspected that he wasn't actually used to having 'morning tea' or any other specific kind of tea – he had an air of a man that ate only when he remembered to, and that was not very often. But he took her on as a caretaker, and that's precisely what she'd do – she would take care of him.

She went to the kitchen to make fire and to cook breakfast, filling the castle with smells of burning wood and hot food, and sounds of clinking plates and teapots. These were cozy smells and sounds, and they made her feel good. She suddenly felt content – she had a brief vision of herself, some time in the future, doing these same things for this man, her master, feeling settled and protected, and… needed. He certainly needed help and care, this strangely un-menacing dark wizard. Who looked like… a lizard. Yes, that's right – he looked like a reptile, that's true, but not a dangerous one, like a crocodile or something else predatory. He looked quick and agile and darting and light – exactly like a small lizard. A wizard-lizard… The idea made her smile, almost affectionately, and she was still smiling as she entered the dining room with the tray in her hands.

And there he sat, in a lonely armchair at the head of the great empty table. He seemed lost in thought; his elbows on the table, his head bend over his hands, his hair shadowing his face. He looked downcast and completely miserable in the dim candlelight. She was surprised at the candlelight – it was a glorious winter morning outside, and then she realized that the curtains on all the windows were tightly drawn. There was no morning in this room, and no light in the life of the man who lived here.

The smile started to fade from her face, but only just, when he looked up at her. He lost his guard, for a split second, and she saw in his eyes something that made her tremble, inwardly. There was despair and longing in his eyes, and they never looked so human to her.

And then his eyes filmed over, regaining their empty reptilian glossiness, and his whole countenance changed: he got a grip of himself. The mask was back in place, with vengeance, and he snarled at her: 'What are you smiling at, you silly girl?'

'Nothing', she mumbled, and hurried over to the table with the tray. He grumbled something by way of 'Thank you', and she escaped to the kitchen to resume her work, and the day went on much as the previous one, with him hovering sulkily on the background and snapping at her occasionally.

The practical girl told herself, repeatedly, that he was what he was – an evil and ugly man, who has taken her on a whim, to spite and humiliate her family, and used her to steam off his bad moods. Yet the dreamer in her refused to be silenced. Her imagination was flying high. She was thinking of hundreds of reasons for his bad temper, his awful looks, and his loneliness. She wondered how he got his power. She shuddered to imagine his evil deeds. She looked at the curious things he collected, and longed to know their stories.

She remembered a tale she once read. It was a story of a girl, a daughter of a nobleman, who brought a famous warrior to his house so that he could entertain him with retelling his adventures. The warrior was ugly – his skin was dark and his looks menacing. Yet his stories were so interesting and so sad that the girl saw through his looks and found a man who not only fought the wars, but also suffered deeply. She was exited by the dangers he had passed, but she also pitied him for them, and she fell in love, and he fell in love with her. Considering his looks the seduction seemed so improbable that the man was even accused of witchcraft, but he defended himself by retelling his stories and fascinating his judges – they believed he could be loved just for them. The story ended badly, eventually – the pair got married, but then the girl was unjustly accused of being unfaithful, and her jealous warrior husband killed her and then himself. But the sad ending didn't concern her now – she was more intrigued by the beginning. The ugly looks, the witchcraft, the mystery of the man… Well, she was _not_ living through the same story, surely? Of course not. Nobody here was falling in love with anybody. Anyway, books were books, and the stories in them were made up. Such things never happened to normal people – thus spoke the practical girl. Yet the dreamer pointed out, and justly so, that being held hostage in a dark castle by a dark wizard can hardly be called 'normal'.

Both the dreamer and the practical girl in her were fascinated by the man. She wanted to _know_ him. And she was determined to get what she wanted.

But it is impossible to get to know someone who shies from you as you march through the room with a broom. She had to get him talking in some situation that was out of the ordinary.

She tried being nice – when she brought him supper, she smiled to him, deliberately. He turned away, pretending not to notice, and became grumpier than usually.

She decided to use his quick temper and to get his attention by irritating him a bit.

This night, when she entered her cell, she didn't feel like crying – not in the slightest. But, as soon as the door slammed shut behind her back, she fell on the straw wailing in pretense of great grief. She sobbed and sobbed, trying to do it as loudly as possible. That should attract his attention, she thought. No sane man can stand such noise for long.

And, sure enough, soon the door to the cell flew open, and there he stood, flustered and truly annoyed, and screamed: 'This cannot go on. This crying – it must stop!'

She ran a hand over her face, pretending to wipe her tears, and glared at him accusingly, ready to voice all the reasons for her distress.

She was getting what she wanted, apparently. They were about to talk.


	6. Chapter 6

6

The whole incident of the stolen magic wand came in extremely handy, or so he thought at the time. The situation was starting to get impossible – he was amazed how quickly it happened, how soon punishment came following the crime. The girl – Belle – had been in his castle for two days. Just two days, and already he felt his life completely destroyed. His settled existence in the castle was disrupted with her cleaning, the air was filled with her presence, and his peace of mind was unhinged by his constant _awareness_ of her. She seemed completely oblivious of what was happening to him. She was moving around the place all businesslike, absorbed in work, looking unbearably sweet in her concentration. Sometimes she'd smile at him, in passing, or give him a fleeting look, and go on with her work. Yet even when she was not in the same room as he, he could hear her or smell her or simply feel her here, within the walls of his home, invading his life and changing it… forever.

He was scared – people are always afraid of change. He was madly exited, every nerve in his body tingling, his skin eager for her touch, his heart beating wildly, his body at once tense and alert at her closeness or just the thought of her, his head swimming with sweet and shameful visions: of her lips parted and wet and getting close to his face, of him tracing the length of her neck with his finger, of her eyes half-closing at his touch, eyelashes casting long shadows on her flushed cheeks, and of a sigh escaping her lips as he kissed the corner of her mouth. These sensations racked his body and these visions filled his brain despite the fact that he told himself, repeatedly, that he must control himself – he has to get a grip of himself. He was angry with himself – for having brought all this about, for reacting to her so strongly, for building up dreams and emotions that had no place in his life. He was filled with sorrow when he heard her crying, and with shame at having brought her suffering, and distraught at his inability to help her in any way. How could he help her if he was the very reason of her unhappiness? He was childishly happy, his head and heart buzzing with joy whenever he had a glimpse at her. He was uncomfortable; he has almost forgotten how it felt to be in somebody's power, he worked hard to push out of his mind the feeling of helpless despondency, which accompanied him most of his life, yet now it was coming back. Yes, he was powerful and could do all sorts of amazing things. Yet he could do nothing to disengage himself from the influence of this girl. He never felt anybody control him with the dagger – the cursed thing never left his possession, he was perhaps the only Dark One in history to be without a human master, to go completely uncontrolled, and he intended to keep it that way. Yet this girl felt more dangerous and more powerful that the dagger, for he realized, deep in his heart, that he would do anything – anything – just to please her. He felt so pitiful admitting this overwhelming desire to be liked by her. He resented his apparent weakness and he marveled at the light that seemed to fill him from the inside whenever he thought of the light of her eyes.

He thought, wildly, that it was fortunate that she seemed to have a kind heart – were she evil and were she aware of her power over him, she could have moved him towards truly horrible deeds.

He remembered the miller's daughter, uneasily – remembered what a fool he made of himself over her. The situation was somehow alike – she struck him deeply the moment he set eyes on her, and he felt drawn to her, and hopeful and eager. He was sure that she was meant to matter in his life, to influence it seriously. God forgive him, he even thought that _she_ was the girl he was destined to love. The mistake was, perhaps, a natural one – the connection between them was so strong as to obscure its' true nature. Yet it was a mistake nevertheless, and an extremely painful one. And it cast dark shadow on what was happening now. For, though he was deeply and irrationally sure he got it right this time, the very exited blindness of his conviction made him apprehensive. If he were mistaken again, the consequences would be that much worse – that much more dangerous to him. Back then he stood in danger of becoming a very dark person, yet in this darkness he would have remained himself – that's how it felt.

Belle, he was sure, had the power to change him completely, to make him disappear in her and emerge a different person. And that was something he could never allow to happen.

He could never allow himself to be conquered by this girl – for so many reasons. His whole obsession with her could be a mistake. It was, obviously and glaringly, unrequited. And even if his feelings were reciprocated, what would he do with the girl? How can he lose himself for an illusion, for an ephemeral thing existing only in his foolishly hopeful heart?

So, when he was not stealing furtive glances at her or thinking of her or straining his ears to check if she were approaching, so as to have time to adapt a look of somebody engrossed in deepest thought, he busied himself with devising a plan of driving her away from him. Letting her go now was impossible – he would look ridiculous, and anyway he could not survive without her: despite all disturbance the girl caused him the very thought of not having her around was unbearable (how quickly one gets used to good things!).

She had to be here, near him. But she had to be distanced. His 'snarling and sneering' strategy wasn't working too well – Belle just more or less ignored his mood-swings, quietly leaving the room when he was especially obnoxious, and returning later with a cup of tea. Despite her nighttime tears, she didn't seem to really resent him, and she certainly didn't fear him. Now and then he noticed kindness and curiosity in those blindingly blue eyes of hers. So he needed something stronger to drive her away. He needed to remind her that he was not, after all, just an eccentric gentleman with peculiar appearance; he was a powerful and dangerous dark wizard. Unfortunately, there needs to be a reason to demonstrate power and to induce danger and to scare with darkness, and till the thief came to disrupt the peace of the castle, there were none.

This thief was a lifesaver for him. He did do something deeply offensive – stealing magic is very bad business. He behaved insolently. He tried to kill him. And he just didn't like the guy, whose large frame, bearded face and bullying self-assurance reminded him of the pirate that took away his wife, humiliated him and caused him to change, eventually. So, here was a perfect opportunity to show Belle just how horrible her master could be. He needed some outlet to his frustration and excitement – punishing the thief was a perfect chance to let some steam off.

He had the right, the power and the justifications to torture the man, to death if such happened to be the case. Yet he found no joy in doing it. There was no… spontaneity in the way he went about it. He was always mindful of the girl, there outside the dungeon, listening to the screams and being disgusted by him. Yes, he knew that to disgust and frighten her was the exact purpose of the whole exercise, but it felt deeply wrong. He knew he must blacken himself in Belle's eyes, he told himself he must. But he did not want it – his heart wasn't in it. And you can't torture anyone half-heartedly.

He really was not a very violent man. He had a temper, a quick one, he never denied it, and in blindness of fury he was capable of quite horrible things. But that was exactly the point. All his blackest crimes were committed in a fit of some extreme emotion. All his crimes were crimes of passion, impulsive – he acted on impulse to protect his child, to avenge broken love, to save his own life. He found it difficult, indeed nearly impossible, to cold-bloodedly inflict pain on a human being, however detestable. Eliminating offending elements quickly was one thing – dragging on with killing painfully, quite another. The former was almost nice – with every quick kill he felt he was cleaning the world of dirt, purifying it. With the latter he polluted it.

He tried to urge himself by mentally linking this thief with the pirate, yet it didn't help. He still didn't want to _torture_ him. To kill him, may be, but not to torture.

He started thinking that may be it was a bad idea, after all. It would have been more effective, certainly more spectacular, if he just killed the thief in front of her. But now it was too late; if he dragged the fellow back to the living room to kill him, or invited her to witness the deed, it would all look forced and fidgety and unnatural. And anyway, there was no fury in him. He didn't feel really offended by the thief – he felt rather sorry for him, sorry for the big fool who bit off more than he could chew and was now paying a very painful price.

Suddenly he felt he couldn't endure this torture any more. He couldn't stay in this room, filled with stink of blood and sweat and urine and animalistic fear, he couldn't stay and look at this averted tear-stained face, at the big hairy body, hanging limply on chains, shuddering with weakness and pain. If he stayed here a moment longer, he'd be physically sick.

He needed to get away – to get a breath of fresh air and to clean his head.

So he abandoned his unwanted prey, emerged from the torture chamber and faced Belle.

She was glaring at him – disappointedly, sadly.

She still didn't look scared, but she was definitely downcast and apprehensive. 'Good', he thought. 'That's exactly how you should look at me, oh darling, darling girl, sweet and naïve and beautiful and so dangerous to me and to my heart'.

He should have felt satisfied – his plan was working, finally. Yet, uninvited and unwelcome, a memory came to him – a fleeting memory of a moment, just hours ago, when the thief shot him with an arrow and, as it pierced his chest, she gasped in alarm and moved as if to help him. She didn't know he can't be killed by such ordinary means, and she was scared for him.

Oh darling, darling, darling.

He left the castle, but he didn't go far: he just went to the nearby forest and sat on the trunk of a fallen tree, looking – and feeling – like some small creature of the woods, shivering in the gray wetness of the misty day. He felt utterly lost and miserable.

Quarter of an hour later, he saw the thief escape from the castle.

Despite his black mood, he gave a snort. So she let him go – the moment her dark master was out of door, she defied him. Challenged him, at her peril, letting his prisoner escape.

He was not surprised, not at all. He already knew that she was a kind and fearless creature – she proved that when she left her family for him.

Nevertheless he was extremely interested to know what she'd say for herself when her deed was discovered.


	7. Chapter 7

7

The whole incident of the stolen magic wand came as an eye-opener, in more ways than one. She always thought she knew herself pretty well – an illusion in which so many young people indulge. In her, this illusion was even stronger than usually, for she had read a lot of books, recognized herself on many pages and considered their wisdom to be her own. Yet now she learned how raw and intense an emotion could feel when it comes for real, not imagined, but experienced, lived through.

At first, she was simply extremely exited. Something was happening, at last. In the two days spent in the castle she came to think of it as a quiet, rather dull place: she was expecting the Dark One's abode to be slightly more trilling, frankly. Here at last was some action, and dramatic one. She saw her master in a new light – alert and animated, he seemed to move and speak with some malevolent grace, and was quite fascinating to watch. He was so brooding and distanced lately that she forgot the cascade of impish gestures and sneers that he performed in her father's castle. Now here they were, again, only somehow more sinister; he took obvious pleasure in showing off his amazing tricks.

Then, when the thief shot an arrow at him and it darted around the room, finally finding his heart, she felt something entirely new to her. She couldn't name it, couldn't find a word for it, she just felt an incredible anguish. Not fear and shock or compassion towards the victim that can normally be experienced when witnessing a violent scene, but real anguish – panic at the immediate perspective of this man's death, the horror of his imminent loss. She hardly knew him, he was not her lover or her brother, she wasn't even sure she liked him, yet as the arrow flew and as it struck his chest with an awful thud, she screamed, silently: 'No! Not him!' and made a movement as if to shield him.

Then he plucked the arrow from his chest, unharmed, and laughed, and in front of her very eyes was transformed into a monster. There was an awful… coldness about him as he dragged the bewildered thief into the dungeon, giggling on the way. This dry ruthless gaiety was more frightening then anger. She could have understood anger – she grew up at a violent military place. She could have understood if he struck the offender down, killed him there and then. But the evil glee, with which he, looking very much like a spider, took his victim into the darkness to devour, was entirely alien to her. It was truly horrible to watch, and it made her ashamed of her earlier anguish at his peril, of her surge to save him.

This _thing_ doesn't need to be saved. It is unworthy of pity and kindness and any human emotion, for it is not human. Washing the bloody aprons he threw at her, swiping the floor in the living room mechanically, listening to the cries of the tortured thief she castigated herself, mercilessly, for all the illusions she ever had in her life, especially the ones she cultivated about Him. How could she think that this person was interesting, mysterious, sad, and worth knowing? These were the thoughts of an utterly naïve girl. There was nothing to know, nothing mysterious about him. He was simply as dark as he looked. Darker, perhaps. He was a monster. Know him? God forbid – the only thing she could think of was to flee from him.

When he emerged from the torture chamber to give her one more bloodied item to wash, she lied: she said there were no more clean and dry aprons for him to use. She hoped that would make him stop, hoped that the pause would give the sufferer in the cells some respite from pain. She was right; with surprising indifference her master strolled out of the room and out of the castle, as if suddenly losing interest in his victim. The moment he was gone, she run to the dungeon to free the prisoner. He was weak and bloodied, but actually in a better condition that she had expected after the prolonged time her master spent with him. Before making his escape, the thief asked her to join him. She refused, without hesitation. She gave her word to stay in this castle and she had to keep her promise; her earlier thoughts of fleeing were induced by panic and helplessness and now, when she had acted and did help, they were gone. She knew she'd be punished for her act of defiance, but she was a person of honor and it was unthinkable to run away from responsibility. 'Only a thief would suggest me running away', thought the little princess with contempt.

And there was something else; despite his pity-inspiring sufferings, she found she didn't actually like the man too much. He was big and hairy and burly, his eyes were glinting with mischief as soon as he was out of chains, and he strongly reminded her of some knights back at home – crude people with coarse jokes and perpetual odor of sweat about them. She didn't want to go anywhere with such a person, even if to run for her life. She'd rather face the wrath of her menacingly elegant lizard of a master.

With the thief gone, she sat in the corner with a book she found on the desk, and waited for that wrath. She held the book in her hands, but couldn't make out a single word, couldn't even see the letters. She was so tense and apprehensive and desperately tried not to be afraid.

There was kindness in his eyes when he looked at her sometimes, she reminded herself. Surely he wouldn't kill her for an act of kindness.

He came back, he discovered that the thief escaped, he understood at once that she helped him, and he screamed at her a bit. But there was no wrath. There was not a shadow of the horrid, mad coldness that scared her earlier. He _looked _and _sounded_ angry, but she didn't _feel_ his anger.

In fact, it all seemed like an act, again. Like a show of hysterical fury, of which in reality there was no trace. He looked tired and sad, even as he screamed.

She was genuinely baffled. What sort of a man was he, so scary one moment and so theatrically insincere in his anger the next? How could it be possible for a human body to be a vessel for such contrasting qualities? And why did she have a stubborn feeling that the sad and weary person was the real one, or the dominant one, and the monster just sometimes made a temporary, thought frightening, appearance?

He went on ranting about hunting the thief, kept describing, in gory details, what he'd do to him, kept sneering at her for being naïve, and the only thing that sounded true in this whole performance was an exasperated cry: 'No one who steals magic ever, ever has good intentions!' _That_ was serious, and that was spoken from some very painful experience.

And all the time while he was shouting and promising to show her unspeakable horrors she kept looking at him and thinking, irrationally: 'It is not you. All that noise and anger, it is not you. Not the real you. This is what you show to the world, but it is not what's in your heart'.

She even said to him something to that effect. She was speaking about the thief, supposedly, defending the possible purity of his heart. But of course in reality she was talking about him, her master. It was his heart she wanted to discover – passionately, as she suddenly realized, with a curiosity and stubbornness undiminished by her earlier horror.

So, when he announced that he was going to hunt the thief, and kill him, and make her watch the process, she didn't protest. The purpose of their journey didn't matter much, at the moment. The prospect of traveling together and having a chance to talk meant a lot.

She found herself in his magical carriage again. They have traveled in it three days ago, but it seemed that a much longer time has passed. She looked at herself – she was still wearing the same dress and the same cloak as on the night he took her from home, but she felt completely detached from her former life. Her homeland, her family all acquired a dreamy quality, as if they were not real. Her real life, her present and her future, were with this man sitting opposite her – silent, and sad, and strangely kind again.

He looked weary – he looked grey with fatigue, which was an odd thing to think, considering that his skin was grayish-green in color normally. His lips, with their dull golden glint, were set in a resigned line, corners drawn slightly downwards. His eyes were in deep shadow, and their weird reptilian glossiness was not immediately visible; they were intensely human. Looking at him now, in the quietness of this grey day, she suddenly realized what made his eyes so strange – his irises were much larger then those of ordinary people, they were almost obscuring the whites. There was a golden glow in his eyes. He looked so calm and still and melancholy it was impossible to believe that he was going to hunt and kill a man.

She asked him if it was really necessary, to catch this thief; and he insisted it was, and there was again such a forced quality to his protestations that she nearly raised an eyebrow on him.

He was so unconvincing that she had to ask him if there was indeed nothing he cared for in life but his power. She was curious, anyway, and she was acutely aware that this trip was her first opportunity to really talk to him, as she always wanted.

There was a long pause before he answered her. He just looked at her, looked right into her eyes with some unfathomable expression, wistful and sad and resigned and, staring into his eyes, expectantly, she felt a sudden unexplainable movement inside her, a gentlest of pulls, a quiet awakening, as if something stirred in her soul. That's how a woman must feel when a child is stirring under her heart for the first time, she thought.

'You are right. There is something else I love', he said. She felt as if a miracle was about to happen. And then he broke the mood; he made some inner effort, and seemed to close something in himself, and snapped: 'My things!'

She didn't know what she expected him to say, but his brittle irony offended her. She glared at him and said sulkily: 'You really are as dark as people say!'

He grimaced: 'Darker, dearie. Much darker'.

So forced. So unconvincing.

Oh you poor, poor unhappy man. How come you are so lost? What is this shadow that obscures you life?

This balance of moods went on for the rest of the day. She felt so sorry and… protective of him, in his sadness, that she quite forgot his vows of revenge and the dark purpose of their journey, as she forgot her earlier resentment and fear of him. So when they finally found the thief, and her master seemed determined to carry out his revenge, she felt… cheated. And helpless – well, anyone would have felt helpless if they were forcibly put waist-deep into the ground. She watched him preparing for murder, and all previous pangs filled her heart. Oh, no, not him, please let not him do it, please let not him be like that, it is all so wrong. For some reason, it meant a lot to her – she felt that if he did a truly evil thing in front of her eyes, her heart would break. She felt like crying, her eyes were brimming with frustrated tears as she kept saying to herself it was not real, it was an act, again, she was convinced of it – he cannot truly want to do this, he is not that kind of man. That was a really absurd thing to say to herself, for she hardly knew what kind of man he was behind his mask, behind his assumed coldness and constant clowning, but that's what she kept repeating, and not just silently, as before.

She actually said it aloud, when they have discovered that the thief's beloved, healed with the stolen wand, was pregnant: 'You are not a kind of man to leave a child fatherless!'

He went rigid when she uttered the words – he stood with his magical bow, the bow that never missed its' target, stood ready to send an arrow flying into his victim's heart, and he visibly froze in place.

She froze with him, her whole being willing him to be… true to her. To be real. To be the man she wanted him to be, with all her youthful stubbornness and ability to believe the best.

And then he released the string, and the arrow swished through air, and she gave an exasperated cry. But the arrow hit the wooden board of the cart in which the woman was brought to the thief, and lovers escaped unhurt.

Silence hung between her and her master as they watched the pair disappear in the forest.

Than he uncovered her from the ground, and sighed, with majestic aplomb: 'Get back to the carriage. I am bored with this forest'.

She couldn't believe her ears, and she was awash with relief. He was not going to hunt the man further. He let him go. They can go home now, and there is no blood on his hands… She should have been happy with that, but she was young and she was stubborn – she wanted him to actually voice a measure of goodness.

'What happened?' she asked.

'I… missed'. He answered without turning his head.

That was absurd: 'This bow has magic in it, it never misses its' target'.

His shoulder twitched, he gave an irritated sigh, and turned towards her. 'Well, may be the magic has just… worn off'. He stopped, the end of the sentence trailing into whisper, and just looked at her, transfixed. She had no idea what he saw in her that stunned him so. Yet she knew what she saw in him. She saw a man completely open to her, as if holding his heart in his palm, a man full of wonder and tenderness, all kinds of tenderness, from indulgent look of a parent towards a child to sad tenderness of a man hopelessly in love, and all kinds of wonder from awe at her existence to amazement at his own reaction to her. She also saw a truly human face, without a trace of its' actual weirdness. It was as if the expression of his eyes obliterated the rest of his features.

She saw a face of a man she believed him to be, and it was beautiful.

Her heart suddenly filled with joy, and she felt that life had more, much more loveliness and light to offer her – she was all at once happy and exited, convinced of more happiness to come. She wanted to hug the world, which suddenly seemed such a bright place, and quite impulsively she hugged Him.

Oh how still he stood in her embrace. How his breath caught.

Instinctively, she knew it is better to let him go, now. So she withdrew her arms and started walking towards the carriage, as he told her to, and turned on the way, smiling at him: 'Aren't you coming?'

He picked his bow and followed, shaking his head ever so slightly, with tenderness and unbelieving wonderment still filling his eyes.

She walked before him, sensing his gaze on her back, and basked in the glow of what just happened. She couldn't even start to comprehend it, it was so strange and unexpected, but she felt so right when she was holding him close, as if being in his arms was the natural and the only place for her, and his body under the cloak felt so warm, and the skin of his cheek, which she touched with hers briefly, was so surprisingly soft, despite all the golden dust, and she liked his fresh smell and his hair, when she accidentally touched it, was silky.

Her heart danced with happiness, the reason for which she could not really explain.


	8. Chapter 8

8

'One night', he told himself. 'Just one night'. For one night only he would allow himself the agonizing luxury of thinking of her, freely and fully, as if she were his.

When she wished him good night and retreated to her 'room', which, while she walked, he hastily willed into coziness, supplying it with a bed and soft pillows and what-not, he went to his chamber on trembling legs. He literally shook, his whole body overtaken with exited exhaustion such as he never knew. Once there, he sat on the edge of the bed, his palms on the satin coverlet, his nails gently digging into the soft fabric, his head lowered and swimming with joy and wonder and amazement and thrill. His breath was somehow shallow, and he tried to steady it, but found that quite impossible. He was on the verge of hysterics. He was in ecstasy.

He kept seeing her smiling face, up close to his. He kept feeling her touch, and his skin seemed to burn, pleasantly, where her fingers pressed it some moments ago. It was then that he decided to stop blocking his thoughts of her, as he did before. He would think of her, think everything he wants, everything he ever wanted. Just once. Just tonight.

It was a wise decision to make, for he couldn't stop thinking of her, anyway. Not after what passed between them today in the forest. Not after what happened later, when they returned to the castle and, on a sudden whim, he has taken her to the library. He knew she loved books, he had seen how, whenever she had a moment to spare, she would pick some volume from his desk, hoping he wouldn't notice. And he found it incredibly touching that, when he returned home to 'discover' the escape of his prisoner, she was waiting for him with a book. No doubt she dreaded his anger, and she needed comfort, and she found it in some obscure leather-bound volume, which she held gingerly in trembling fingers.

Oh, all that was history now, gone and forgotten – his anger, her fear. If her fingers would tremble with him nearby, it would not be with fear – they would tremble with gentle anticipation of mutual touch.

He knew she loved books, so he expected her to be pleased with his present. Yet nothing could prepare him for her pure joy at it, and for the way she would express her gratitude. She was smiling; she was practically dancing around the room, oblivious to his half-hearted attempts to be stern, she was looking at book-lined walls with eager curiosity, and then she turned to thank him, and grabbed his hand and held it.

He thought his heart would drop out of him. It was such a direct, such an intimate touch. In the woods, where she astounded him with her hug, he felt too shaken to fully grasp its' significance. He still hadn't absorbed it yet, perhaps, at least not fully. In the carriage on the way back she was very quiet, not looking at him much. In fact, she looked so timid that he might have started to think he imagined the whole thing, only, when he looked at her, she sort of glowed. Her skin was luminescent in the dusky interior of the carriage, her cheeks were flushed, and her eyelashes fluttered. Once, she bit her lower lip.

The intensity with which he wanted to touch her, to take her lovely face into his hands and regard it closely, and then to press his lips to her brow, and to kiss her cheeks, and the tip of her nose, and to move, finally, to her lips, was shuttering. Yet how could he do anything like that? How could he be sure that inner glow illuminating her face had anything to do with him? Well, her embrace might have given him a hint, but he was still so, so unsure. She must have touched him out of simple gratitude for his act of mercy. She must have regretted that impulse instantly – she drew away from him so quickly. He repulsed her, oh, surely he did; it couldn't be otherwise.

But then, in the library, she touched him again, deliberately, and held his hand for one brief, yet infinite, moment. The embrace in the woods was, of course, momentous. But then they were fully clothed. That embrace turned his heart and touched his soul. Her brief gesture in the library shook his body, for she touched his bare skin, and she smiled.

Oh the beauty, the wonder of it.

He found himself clasping one of his hands with the other, trying to imitate her gesture. Of course it felt nothing like her, for the main thing about her touch was her skin, the skin that felt so right touching his. Yet he pursued the impulse. He abandoned his hand, and moved his fingers to his cheek. Imagine she had touched him like that, too. Imagine she'd pressed her palm to his face; her small, warm, soft palm, so white and so gentle, what was he thinking of, making her do all these dirty household tasks? There will be no question of that caretaker nonsense, from now on. His princess wouldn't go on cleaning for him. She would care for him… differently.

Imagine she would place a hand on his chest, right over his heart. Imagine he'd catch her fingers, and press them to his lips. Imagine they'd look into each other's eyes, deeply, longingly, and the rest of the world would be lost to them. Imagine him lowering his head, and finding her mouth, her lips parted, slightly wet, for she has licked them nervously, imagine him kissing her; imagine her sighing into his lips. Imagine it, and try to survive the joy.

Imagine her kissing his neck, right inside the shirt-collar. Imagine her hand opening the collar wider, and stroking his skin. Imagine his fingers gripping her shoulders; imagine pulling her closer, pressing her body to his. Imagine her touching his thigh. Imagine her touching his groin. Imagine him hardening in her fingers. Imagine desire, blinding and blazing, filling his body with dull ache, incurable until he held her in his arms, leaving him breathless.

There was no need to _imagine_ that – he was hard, almost painfully so, and he could hardly breathe.

Imagine the weight of her body, pressed to his, pulling him down to the bed, embracing. Imagine his face, lifted up to hers, all taut with his yearning. Imagine her face, flushed, mellow, her eyes gentle and serious, her lips swollen from kissing. Imagine tracing his lips down her neck.

He fell backwards on his bed, his feet on the floor, his hand on his chest, his fingers pressed against solar plexus, trying to still the heart pounding against his ribcage. He stared at the ceiling, unseeing. His mind was full of her; his eyes saw her, only her, in his mind.

Imagine her hair, falling on his face. Imagine her breasts, very white, with small dark nipples, exposed, hardening under his gaze. Imagine pressing his face to her breasts, and licking a drop of sweat. Imagine touching her back and her backside. Imagine her hands on his back and his backside. Imagine him moaning.

No need to _imagine_ that – he was moaning. He was delirious with desire, inflamed with it, he was quite outside his body, yet extremely conscious of it. His left hand was pressed to his chest. His right hand was on his erection.

Imagine her body, naked, melting in his embrace. Imagine her damp skin. Imagine his fingers tangled in the short hair between her legs. Imagine her gasping, biting her lower lip. Imagine her body spread under him. Imagine the smell, sweet-sour smell of her arousal. Imagine her wet, for him. Imagine her eyes closing as she listens to the trembling inside her. Imagine being inside her, feeling this trembling with his skin.

Imagine exploding in her, dying and coming back to life, blinded by joy, ecstatic.

There was no need to _imagine_ that – he has come, lying on the bed fully clothed, only his shirt opened, and his fly. He was still wearing his boots.

He stayed like that for some time, his eyes slowly focusing on the room around him, his breathing returning to normal. His heart was full of light. He thought, vaguely, that he should probably have been ashamed of himself, of what he'd done. But he felt no shame. He felt exhilarated, and happy, he felt reborn and strangely… fresh, even in his soiled clothing.

He loved her, and he thought of her with passion. Where there's love, there is no shame.

_He loved her_. Oh how strange and how sweet these words sounded, when he said them to himself. What complete certainty they transported. What new meaning they gave to the world. How they changed his place in the world: he was no longer separate from it, he was included, embraced, for She _was_ the world, and she was inside him and all around him. It was so in his thoughts only for now, that's true. But it was going to be so in reality, too. It was meant to be. It was his destiny, and hers.

He thought, suddenly, of the only woman in his life that made him feel strong passion before, and for the first time in many years he thought of her kindly. She must have suffered. She must have felt that something was wrong between them. She was denied the bliss he felt today.

He remembered his confusion back then, when he knew Cora. His attraction to her was so strong, their minds so alike that he was practically sure it was love, and puzzled why it didn't transform him into something bigger and better, as it was supposed to. Now, when he was experiencing the real thing, it was unbelievable that he could have mistaken the surge of lust and the war of wills that bound him to Cora with that dazzling abandonment in a person that Belle's very being promised him. Cora was too much alike him to be his true love. You cannot love a person that is too much like you. You know yourself too well to fear yourself or to wonder at yourself, and there has to be great fear of the unknown to inspire love, and great awe at the possibility of a miracle. There have to be, in one's soul, opposition, contrast and danger of destruction of self to create real tension and real passion, and there has to be wonderment at the unattainable ideal to install humility without which no love is complete. People are selfish; they are only concerned with themselves. When we love, it is the only time in our life when we find something outside us that matters more that we do to ourselves. The object of love is so powerful, so great and so dazzling that one needs to become one with it – to devour it, or to be dissolved in it. Yet destruction is not a way of true love. One must disappear in the loved one, humbly – then both can change and become a united whole. Cora would have devoured him, out of sheer fear that he might devour her. She would have never opened up to him enough to embrace him.

Belle would embrace him, because she is so unlike him. Everything in them is different, from their ages to their souls – hers so radiant, his so troubled. Like the sun rising over the mountains, she would flood his life with light – generous, kind, all-forgiving, hopeful girl, so young, so beautiful, so _his_.

He did tell himself, briefly, that he must be demented – he has built such a mountain of dreams out of a single touch. Wasn't he like a hero of an old fable he once heard, the old man who has read too many heroic novels and imagined himself a knight, and started riding around fighting windmills, taking them for giants, and met some peasant girl whom he believed to be the noble lady he vowed to serve and love eternally? He even called her by a special name, and everybody laughed at him. Wasn't he doing the same thing now – could it be that the girl he has found was just an ordinary girl, and it was he who invested her with all the wonders of universe? After all, he was mistaken before. Perhaps he was mistaken again?

No, he was not. He knew how magic works, and between him and Belle, there was magic. She might have been an ordinary girl till he came into her life, but now she was transformed. It was as if, like the mad knight from the fable, he has given her a new name, only in their case the spell worked and she changed and he changed and they were bound together.

He smiled into the ceiling, fingering his open shirt absentmindedly, dreaming of the next morning and of all the mornings of the world yet to come. He would see her, soon. He would smile at her, and she would smile at him. He'd be kind and light with her. He would give her things. He would shower her with presents. He would be oh, so gentle with her. She would never, never again cry because of him.

He would take it slowly, of course – she would think him mad if, after all his attempts to keep her at bay, he'd suddenly start wooing her ardently. He'd be much the same, at first, only he wouldn't mean all his… meanness. He'd joke with her and tease her and show her interesting things, and she'd smile at him, and touch his hand, occasionally, and they would talk – they never talked yet, not really, and there are so many things he wants to know about her. And if she ever asked him, again, if there is anything else that he loves in the world except his power, he would look into her magical eyes and say: 'Yes, there is something else that I love. You'.

He would take his time wooing her, he is in no hurry, he has all the time in the world, but he will woo her, eventually. And then the reverie in which he let himself drown tonight will come true. She will be enclosed in his embrace, as she is, even now, enclosed in his heart.

He had quite forgotten his resolution to dream of her just once, tonight. He was busy making plans. He was also extremely exhausted – he couldn't make himself get up and undress properly and wash. So he kicked off his boots, and wiggled out of his clothes, half-rising from the bed, and then fell on top of the coverlet, face down, giggling into his pillow.

He was idiotically happy.

He fell asleep smiling.


	9. Chapter 9

9

Events of the day left her emotionally exhausted. So much has happened. In the course of one day she managed to get exited, alarmed, frightened, disgusted; than she had a chance to feel heroic, stupid, than she was fascinated, compassionate, disappointed, than frightened again. And after that, she felt… disturbed, and exited again, in a different way, and unexplainably happy. More then anything, she now felt _closer_ to her mysterious master than ever before. In the course of this day, he has shown her some sides of himself that she would never have guessed existed. There was warmth, and genuine kindness, and openness, and vulnerability – as well as cruelty and coldness, which seemed very much at odds with the rest of him. Or perhaps the good things were at odds with the bad ones? She was confused – she didn't know what to think of him. And she didn't know what to think of herself, and her inexplicable reaction to the two occasions when they touched. She felt… happy when she touched him, there in the woods, and then later, in the library, when she held his hand expressing her gratitude for his very generous gift.

He knew that she loves books – when did he noticed that, she wondered?

His hand was warm and soft and it trembled when she touched it.

She felt strangely… powerful when she felt that shaking. But than she went back to her 'room', and on the way had to remind herself of her servile position in relation to him.

Yet, when she entered her cell, she found it transformed. Where once there was a mat of straw, there was a bed now. Where once there was a jar of water, now stood a vanity table with brushes and a hand-mirror and some scents.

One the coverlet of the bed a new dress was spread. It was a simple working dress, blue in color, very unpretentious, but it was pretty, and the fabric was soft, and she felt disproportionally touched by the fact that it was there. He must have noticed that her yellow dress was getting ruined – why, he did a lot of damage himself when he dug her into the ground. He must have felt guilty, and decided to compensate her.

He must have cared for her to give her a present.

Oh, she was so confused. She didn't know what to think of him anymore – in the course of the day he seemed to be sort of… transformed. She wondered if it had anything to do with her, whenever she said or did something to effect the change. She didn't know what to think of herself, and her mixed reactions to him.

With a sigh, she undressed, gratefully casting the soiled and spoiled yellow silk dress on the floor. Thank God she wouldn't have to put that on anymore. She climbed into bed, which was very soft and comfortable, and anticipated a peaceful night. Surely after such a tiring day she would sleep like a baby.

She didn't. All night she kept fidgeting in her bed, falling into slumber, then coming out of it again, dreaming of him, scary and sad, menacing and touching, cold and open, always changing, never simple and understandable. She kept thinking of him, sleeping or awake. She kept feeling his touch. She kept hearing his malicious giggle. She kept seeing his weird eyes filled with tenderness. She felt the warmth of his hand, yet she also felt the cold breath of the wind from the unknown terrain her life has become when she linked it with his.

She woke up earlier than usually – she just couldn't stay in bed any longer. She wasn't tired anymore, but she didn't feel fully rested, either – she was strangely alert, as if in some suspended state, expectant, thought she had no idea was she was actually expecting. The practical side of her told her that the best cure for her strange condition was work, so she went to the kitchen to make a fire and prepare tea for him. When everything was ready, she looked at the clock and realized he wouldn't need his tea, for he wouldn't be up yet – he was not a lark; he never rose early, perhaps because he usually worked late at night.

It was amazing how things connected with him had already become customary to her. He 'never' woke early; he 'usually' worked late… She has been here for three days, for goodness sake, why did she feel that she has been here forever? And why was that feeling agreeable to her?

She shook her head – she was in no condition to think straight, not now. Suddenly she realized she had some free time on her hands, and this unexpected freedom left her baffled. It seemed that she already acquired a habit of building her life around her duties and around her master. Yet now she had a chance to be her own mistress, again, even if for just a couple of hours, and she was not sure what she'd do. Giving it some thought, she decided that she would employ that time by having a look around the castle. It was so vast; there were some corridors and rooms she never entered yet. There were many, many things hidden here – well, until yesterday she didn't even know there was a library in the castle. There were many things here, and perhaps some of them would lead her to discover more about her master. She was still so, so curious about him – the more she learned, it seemed, the more enigmatic he became.

Feeling very adventurous, she decided to explore the first floor of the castle – she was more or less familiar with the ground floor already, as the majority of the rooms he used (and that she, therefore, had to clean) were there. Now she ignored the hall, the dining room and the living room, and went up the wide staircase, still rather dusty – she didn't have time to clean it properly yet.

The atmosphere in the corridor upstairs was gloomy. The ceiling was unnaturally high, like in the nave of a cathedral. Walls were decorated with obscure tapestries, so dark and dusty it was impossible to discern their subjects. There were cobwebs hiding in the peaks of narrow arch-shaped niches lining the walls. Suits of armor loomed from dark corners like ghosts. There was not a single window in the whole corridor, and not many doors either. Her steps echoed in the deserted dusk of the place. She wondered at this strange passage, seemingly leading nowhere, and shivered at the cold that seemed to hang here permanently. An uneasy thought crossed her mind: she embarked on this journey around the castle hoping to discover something new about her master. Well, if this corridor was anything to go by, there were things about her master she'd much rather left undiscovered. Seized with sudden apprehension, remembering all the fairy tales about curious maidens that went one door too far in their desire to learn about dark masters of dark castles, she almost resolved to turn back, when something caught her eye. It was a narrow stripe of light crossing the dusty stone-flagged floor. It came from the door on the right-hand side of the corridor. That door was slightly ajar.

Guided by curiosity, silently praying that there would be no dead bodies of previous wives, or some such things, behind this door, she walked on and peered through the crack.

After the gloom of the corridor, the room looked almost disappointingly normal. It had high ceiling, decorated with gilded carvings, and walls lined with dully-red fabric. It had a window and, unusual though it seemed in the castle where all the curtains were always tightly drawn, this window was not curtained at all – the frame was filled with stained glass, and the sun passing through colored pieces cast pretty shadows on the carpeted floor. Moreover, the window was opened – not widely, just a crack, yet the air in the room was fresh, and not with the heart-sinking chill, as in the corridor, but with crispy freshness of the winter morning.

It was a lovely room, and one she would never expect to find in the Dark Castle at all.

She opened the door wider, wanting to have a closer look at things, yet barely walked in when she stopped short, stifling a frightened gasp. It was her master's chamber, and he was in it. Among the things she could not see from the threshold was a bed – a huge one, with velvet canopy and gilded headstand.

Her master was lying on the bed, face down.

He was completely naked. There were no blankets, and no nightdress; he just slept there, his face half-buried in the pillow, his body entirely opened for view. His clothes were scattered on the floor in total disorder.

She blushed, deeply.

She had seen naked men before – her father's castle was a rough place, especially in the time of war, and his knights and troopers didn't much care for modesty as they went about washing, fell asleep drunk and woke later to shag the serving-maids. She has seen men, burly and muscular military folk, parading their unsavory flesh around the castle, and, as any teenage girl, she was curious. Every time she saw them, she thought: I am going to marry one of them one day; I might as well have a general idea of what to expect.

Yes, she had seen naked men before. But He was something different altogether. She wasn't even sure the word 'man' should be used to describe him.

He was _green_. Truly, wholesomely green. She felt stupid to be surprised at that – she saw his face, she saw his hands, yet she somehow never assumed he was actually green, all over.

He was very thin – brittle, almost. His spine peaked as a fishbone, or like a mountain ridge, his ribs where countable, his shoulder blades protruding.

His skin glittered with golden sparks in the cold winter sunlight.

Posed like that, with arms spread, one leg straightened, other half-bent, he looked exactly like a lizard resting on the wall. She glanced furtively closer and was relieved to find that he didn't have a tail. There were impossibly touching gentle dips on the small of his back.

His mossy hair was rumpled, but she could see his face in profile – the long nose, the sensitive lips, the long eyelashes.

She knew she shouldn't stare, that she shouldn't be in the room at all. Yet she couldn't take her eyes off him.

He was so _different_ – so unlike anything, anybody – any body – she has seen before. So different from other people; so different from her. He was really, truly inhuman – he was from different species. When she looked at him like that, it was impossible to believe that he could talk and think as men do, that he felt warm to the touch. She had to remind herself that his skin was warm; as he lay there she was sure that if she touched him he'd feel cold, as a snake. Touch him? She'd never dare to do that again. She was overwhelmed with realization of their total alienation. It wasn't fear – there was nothing to fear in this reposed figure. She just felt that these two types of… flesh, hers and his, could never, never come into contact, never be reconciled.

Yet, she realized with horrified surprise, she wanted to touch him.

He was so _delicate_. The bony spine, the thin limbs, the golden glow of his skin – he looked so fragile, so perfectly shaped – it was impossible not to admire him, as one would admire a wild thing in a menagerie.

He was beautiful. He was scary. He was completely from a different time and space. He looked like some heraldic beast.

She wondered what place could have bourn him, what force could have shaped him – she couldn't think of any natural way such a creature could have come into being.

And than, for the first time since they've met, she thought of magic. She knew he was a wizard, of course, a dark wizard, and she sort of assumed his looks were part of his… occupation, a costume donned to look the part. Yet now she thought – what if he does not only create magic, what if he himself was created by magic? What if there was a force that changed him, endowing him with his power, and shaping his appearance to manifest the magic that flowed through him?

She stared at the bizarre creature that was her master, looked at his reptilian skin and clawed hands, she remembered his filmy eyes, and the strangely human look that sometimes entered them, hinting at the man he probably was once, the man she saw so clearly when she embraced him in the forest, and she thought: 'It couldn't have been good, this magic that changed him. It must have been a curse'.

A strange chill came over her at this thought. It was as if the deserted wilderness of her dreams had emerged, briefly, in reality, and polluted this bright and beautiful morning with grey, doomed bleakness.

He sighed, there on the bed, and made as if to turn over, slowly waking up, shading his eyes with his hand, but shameless otherwise, oblivious of the relaxed nakedness of his slumber.

She barely stopped herself from squeaking, and fled the room.

She ran all the way down to her cozy kitchen, not caring if he heard her steps as she run. Her cheeks were hot, her breathing was troubled, and she wished she could forget what she saw and what she thought.

She blushed to think she'd have to face him, soon.

She heard him up and moving, upstairs – now that she knew where his room was, she was acutely aware of him _being there_. She heard his steps. She imagined she heard water splashing as he took his bath. Thinking of his inhumanly shaped lizard body standing erect in the bath, of his green and gilded skin glistening in the sunlight as the water run down his limbs and his back, as he splashed himself from the bucket, she blushed again.

She tried to distract herself with making tea.

When he came down half an hour later, looking fresh and dapper in his tight pants and narrow waistcoat and frilled shirt, and unusually cheerful, she didn't dare to look him in the eye. He didn't seem to mind – it seemed that his good mood had nothing to do with her. But then again, why should it?

He smiled at her as she served tea, studiously avoiding his eyes. The pattern of the carpet suddenly held an amazing interest for her.

He must have had some sixth sense about her uneasiness – he didn't sit down at the head of the table, as was his custom, but moved around the room restlessly, as in a kind of dance, always getting near her. She could have sworn he was teasing her, subtly. When he finally approached the tea tray, he picked the cup she chipped on the first morning, and very gently tapped it with one of his talons. It made a lovely clinking sound.

She blushed again.

His issued one of his indescribable giggles, and actually clapped his hands.

'This new dress suits you uncommonly well', he said.

She had to lift her eyes, then – to look at him, to say 'thank you'.

'The color matches your eyes', he added as an afterthought. As if he has not given her the dress; as if the whole thing surprised him.

He was obviously enjoying himself. He looked like an incredibly mischievous child. He looked like an imp. And suddenly, watching him in his unreasonably gleeful mood, she forgot all her misgivings and all her fantasies of chilly darkness. She found him immensely likable.

Perhaps his cheerful mood was infectious. She felt like clapping her hands, too. Or blushing again. Or both.

Feeling she was just one step away from making a fool of herself, she escaped hastily, mumbling something about housework, and sat in the kitchen for a while, brooding at her strange reactions to him, wondering at the sheer impossibility of the man. What happened to the snappy monster that ordered her around and glared at her? Where did this playful tease come from? How soon will his nasty mood return? And how was she supposed to reconcile these different sides of him in her mind?

Oh, why was she so _confused_ about him?

Back there in the room where she left him she heard the gentle smooth rattle of his spinning wheel, and his laughter – soft and somehow dreamy.


	10. Chapter 10

10

He woke up with a feeling that she was with him – he seemed to sense her near, to catch her scent in the air, to hear her light steps. He smiled, without opening his eyes. It was an illusion, of course, but one he didn't want to chase away. Still not opening his eyes, he flipped over and lay on his back, stretching his limbs, getting used to the new sensation in his body. He felt happy, and it was a physical thing. He hadn't felt so happy in years.

He never felt so happy in his life.

He listened to her scent in the air some more. It felt so real it was uncanny. How powerful his attraction to her must be – how strong the pull, how binding the love. He opened his eyes and contemplated colored sunbeams falling into his room through stained glass, but instead of pretty shades he saw her face, her graceful head sitting on a slender neck, and her gentle shoulders. In his mind's eyes, she bit her lip, and lowered her gaze, blushing.

His body stirred, reacting to the vision, and for a minute he was tempted to dream of her some more, like he did last night. But than he stopped himself; what was the point of dreaming of her when he could go down and see her?

He sat on the bed, gingerly, than stood up and attended to his morning toilet. He chose his clothes carefully. He wanted to make an impression – a _nice_ impression.

Ready to go down, he moved towards the door and stood there, sniffing the air. He was not mistaken, earlier – it was not an illusion; she had really been here. She must have wandered into this part of the castle, somehow.

She must have seen him.

He turned around, surveying the room – his clothes scattered on the carpet, his bed with a crumpled coverlet – the bed on which he slept naked. The picture was… telling.

She must have seen _everything_.

Oh, well. What was done was done. He was not going to bother to be ashamed. She shouldn't have been snooping around, his curious little princess. She'd have to face the consequences now.

He went down giggling, he faced her smiling, and he teased her, gently. She was bashful, and blushing, exactly as he pictured her, but generally her mood seemed to be light, too. She certainly didn't show any signs of regret at touching him the day before.

When she escaped to the kitchen he sat spinning at his wheel, and his head was spinning with happy expectations and current excitement.

For the next few days it went on in more or less the same fashion. He carefully stuck to his resolution to take things slowly, so as not to frighten her with any unwanted attentions or unduly pressure. He didn't say anything directly, didn't approach her or tried to touch her. He just stayed near her as much as possible, finding himself chores in the same rooms, and he talked to her; he smiled to her, and basked in her answering smiles. He also did little things for her; unbeknown to her, he started to will some of the filth in the castle away, so that every day she found her household duties that much easier, and she now had more time to rest and to read in the library, in which she delighted. He also gave her small presents – he didn't _give_ them to her, of course, not directly, but every night she'd find something pleasant in her room: a ribbon, a comb, a pair of slippers. It warmed his heart to see her wearing these little things the next morning; it felt as if he touched her.

He had to go away sometimes, of course, for he had things to do – his arrangements with the curse were entering final stages. Yet he tried to finish everything as quickly as possible, for his only real wish right now was to get back to her. He found it a bit difficult to concentrate on his immediate tasks. When he visited the Queen, for example, favoring her request to disguise her so she could walk among the people and learn what they really thought of her (part of the plan, of course – she had to know her people hated her, had to become desperate, had to start thinking that no one will ever love her; poor Regina, he sometimes felt sorry for her. She really believed she has lost all hope for love – how silly of her. There is always, _always_ hope for love, look at him, who would have believed that he would be so smitten?), he was hardly listening to her. He kept examining things on her dressing table, picking a brush there and a scented box here, thinking he must get something like that for Belle. Once he noticed Regina looking at him oddly – she caught him checking his looks in the hand mirror, adjusting the lace at his collar and making faces at himself. He couldn't help it – he kept thinking of Her, kept trying to see himself with her eyes, kept wandering in his thoughts back to the castle, wishing he was already there, with her, chatting happily of all sorts of things.

He was bursting with joy – he became excitement personified, and in this delirious glow of hope and love he had made a mistake that cost him… everything.

When Regina, disappointed and bitter, came back to him, still disguised as a peasant girl, he made a quip – one of his silly quips that Belle seemed to quite enjoy now. He pretended not to recognize the Queen, to take her for a servant looking for position. And he told her: 'I already have a maid. A very promising girl, actually'. And all his excitement, all his secret happiness sounded in his voice – oh, so clearly.

That set Regina's mind working. That made her pay attention to his strange moods.

That made her learn more about the girl he kept in the castle, and to draw conclusions on which to act in her perpetual attempts to outdo her teacher.

Yet he didn't notice this incident, not at the time. It slipped his mind the moment it was over – as soon as Regina left, he went back to Belle, who was sitting in the living room with some sewing, and sat contentedly at his wheel, spinning and thinking happy thoughts.

It was in a very similar situation, as he was sitting at the wheel and she was busy with domestic work, that an episode that changed his whole attitude to her took place.

Belle was on the ladder, trying to take off the curtains, which she probably wanted to wash: with his subtle invisible cleaning her daily tasks were getting too easy, and she ambitiously set herself new and harder ones. He was spinning, casting her occasional glances – the skirt of her new dress was rather short (he made it that way with subconscious deliberation, most probably), and it showed her pretty ankles to great advantage, especially now, when she was on the ladder, and he just _had_ to look at them. She kept glancing at him, too, each look filling his heart with gladness. At some point her curiosity got the better of her; distracted from her task, she asked him: 'Why do you spin so much?'

Absentmindedly, he spoke the truth. 'I like watching the wheel. It helps me forget'.

Of course she wanted to know more, instantly. He gave her an opening; he already knew she was curious, and he should have known better than to speak honestly; but the words were already out, and, unlike his usual banter, they hinted at something serious, and she gave him a puzzled frown. 'Forget what?'

For a second he sat there, thinking. 'I just might tell her', he thought. He just might have told her the truth – what he really was, what made him the way he was, what it was like to be him. He just might have told her about his son – he might have confessed his guilt and spelled out his hopes. Perhaps she had had enough of his silly prattling and giggling. Perhaps she deserved the truth. Perhaps she would have been able to take it. After all, she was such a kind and brave girl, and she seemed to like him.

Yet he felt it was too early to burden her with the darkness of his life. And he was afraid that if he did tell her, and she wouldn't have been ready, he'd lose her – just like that.

So he made a quip. 'I guess it worked!' he said, and giggled. He was immediately rewarded with her laughter – affectionate and indulgent, as if she were conversing with a child.

Ah, it was much better like that. It was much better for her to treat him as if he was mentally deficient that to run away from him in horror.

The mood that made him happy at the wheel was broken, and he stood up to watch her work – and her ankles – more closely. And a good thing he did that, too, for the moment he approached her she tugged at the nailed-down curtain too hard, and it came off the rail, and the girl of his dreams literally fell into his arms.

She nested in his embrace, holding his neck, smiling at him in happy embarrassment.

He held her and looked into her eyes, completely stunned.

God knows he imagined her in his arms, often enough – every night, in fact. Not only at nights, to be honest. Yet it was one thing to think of her – to imagine her warmth and softness and the feel of her skin – and to actually hold her. Her closeness hit him like a ton of bricks. He felt her weight and her roundness, he could smell her hair; he saw small beads of perspiration on her brow, and her smiling mouth was just inches from his. She was there, in his arms, she was very close and very real, and she was far, far more beautiful now, in the flood of sunlight from the opened window, then she ever was in his wildest dreams.

Her breasts were heaving, gently, at the thrill of her lucky escape and perhaps – perhaps – at his closeness. He only had to bend his head a little to tear her dress away with his teeth and kiss them.

He could have carried her into his bedroom, straight away. Ah, forget the bedroom – he could have had her right there, on the living-room floor, tangled in the fallen curtains.

Instead, he just kept staring.

The moment stretched.

Finally she thanked him, prettily. He said it was nothing. He put her on the floor.

She was saying something about hanging the curtains back, and he did answer something appropriate to that, but he wasn't listening, not really. All his will-power was directed on one purpose – to get away from the room, as quickly as possible, before he lost last dredges of self-control. As soon as he was out of the door, he stood with his back to the wall, the muscles of his stomach clenching, his head thrown back, gasping. Then he bent down, grasping his knees with his hands, his body heaving with deep sob-like breaths. It didn't help. Nothing could have helped.

He wanted her as he never wanted anybody in his life, ever. He was racked with desire.

He was _burning_.

Slowly, he made way to his room, stumbling all the time, his hands grazing the walls, searching for support – his body was painfully incapacitated with want. At the corridor on the first floor he had to stop, for a moment, and to double over clasping his knees again – he could not go on walking, he wanted her so.

He made it to his room, somehow. He locked the door, carefully. He collapsed on the bed, tearing his clothes apart, casting them away.

No gentle reveries, this time, no sweet imaginings. No thoughts of looking into her eyes and hearing her whispers. He _lusted_ for her. He was possessed with ruthless animalistic need. The beast, her father called him? Well, screw her father. She was _his_, his only, and he wanted her, and he would have her. Soon.

His erection was painful; his whole body was in pain. He took himself in his hand. No closing his eyes, this time – he stared into the space before him, seeing her naked, seeing her legs spread apart for him, seeing her head thrown back, her breasts peaking, her hair falling over her shoulders wildly, seeing her hands clutching the sheets, feeling her tightening her virginal body against his attack, feeling her give way, hearing her moan.

He came quickly, with a scream. He lay on the bed, his breath shallow, his body still pulsating with desire, still just as ready to ravish her.

He had to do everything again. And then again.

Finally, he lay still, trembling all over, his body stained, the bed stained, and the room full of rancid smell of solitary lust.

He felt an awful chilliness come over him. Too exhausted, too _empty_ to move he fumbled with a blanket, pulling it over his shaking body. He lay on his side, curling into foetal position, clutching his hands to his chest. His hands smelled of him, they were stained with him, and he couldn't stand it; he had to wipe his hands on the blanket, and then curled back into the pitiful shivering ball.

He didn't feel ashamed of what he'd done, not exactly. He was too stunned for that. He was terrified to realize that he could be so possessed with desire. He became accustomed to being omnipotent – and here he was, completely defeated by his own body. He lost control. He behaved – he felt – like an animal. He never knew it was in him, this violent need.

Just imagine him losing control with her – imagine him really doing those things to her.

At the thought, his body stirred, again. He groaned, and closed his eyes in desperation.

It was one thing to love her, and quite another to want her with such devastating force. He could not risk scaring her. He could not risk _losing himself_ to such extent. He must distract himself from that obsession with her body. Goodness, she only touched him twice, and she fell into his arms by accident – how could he build such a terrible passion out of these trifle things, how dared he to stain her with such violent desires? She would be shocked, if she knew; she would be disgusted. He was insulting her, debasing her with such outbursts. She was not just a body he desired, she was a person, a lovely and radiant girl that enchanted him with her mind as well as with her beauty. Didn't she? He must make an effort to restrain himself. Yet now he was too shaken with what had happened, he couldn't think. He would work something out tomorrow.

God, he'd have to face her tomorrow, how would he be able to do that?

He felt close to tears, and wondered why. It must have been sheer nervous exhaustion.

He closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep.

He saw her face, and felt comforted.


	11. Chapter 11

11

In the following weeks she didn't see much of him. His volatile mood seemed to change again. It was not that he became cold and angry as in the first days of her stay in the Dark Castle; he was still polite, kind and smiling when they met. But he has somehow distanced himself from her. He seemed to become suddenly… shy. When she cleaned, he was rarely ever in her way. He spent most of his time in his workroom – the one where he made his potions and received mysterious visitors (there was an eccentric young man with a huge hat-box, for example, and others whom she didn't have a chance to observe properly). She was not allowed to go into this room – he said, abruptly, that there was too much she could disturb if she went there, and any cleaning that was necessary there he would do himself. So, he stayed in this room, or out of the castle on mysterious errands. She was by herself a lot of time, and she felt lonely.

She started missing her family; while he was near, she barely thought of them, but now she was sometimes wondering how were they, whenever they missed her, and why didn't they enquire about her. She did promise to go with the Dark One forever, that was true – but surely that didn't make her dead? They might have sent her a letter. They might have visited – surely he would have allowed a letter or a visit? Oh well, perhaps they were too scared of him. That was only natural to be scared of him if you didn't really know him. Even she was a little scared of him before he started to show her different sides of himself, and she realized that there was much more to him then awful power, strange appearance and sneering manner and devilish tricks.

As she strolled around the castle, looking into different rooms and wondering at amazing and incredible things he collected (most of them magical, she supposed, though she couldn't fathom what could be magical about a couple of ugly marionettes, for example), she was trying to define, for herself, how she saw him. She thought of his mood swings, his baffling manner to sneer when he was angry and to disguise his kindness with abruptness. She thought of his infectious gaiety and his chilling gloom. She thought of his disturbing alien look, and of his grace. She thought of his duality, of his manner to constantly change; she couldn't help feeling that he was a man divided… at least in two, and probably into larger number of parts. She thought of his tender eyes, and of the way his body trembled when he touched her – when she fell from the ladder, for instance, and he caught her, he shook all over before he put her on the floor. She thought of his manner to lock himself in his room for hours on end, and of his stifled moans she sometimes heard from behind the door; and she thought of his manner to come sometimes into the room where she was sewing or reading and to sit there quietly, not talking, but obviously enjoying her company. At such moments her heart went out to him. She felt like coming over and sitting on the floor by his feet; she imagined how she'd lean her head on his knees, and he would, perhaps, stroke her hair. She had no idea where this image came from – nothing, but nothing in his behavior suggested he'd welcome such an action, and for her to actually do something like that would have been strange indeed. But that was what the practical Belle told herself. The dreaming Belle felt that to sit with him in such closeness and compassionate silence would have been a perfectly right thing to do. It would have comforted her in her loneliness, and it would have consoled him in his mysterious grief.

His sadness – that was what she felt was the main thing about him, the first thing she thought of when she pictured his face in her imagination or glimpsed him in reality. He was always, always sad, even when he was laughing – especially when he was laughing. When he thought that she wasn't looking at him, or forgot that she was around (it happened sometimes when he was busy spinning), a look of such complete desolation would come over him. His shoulders would sag, his lips droop, his eyes close as if he was deadly tired and it took him extreme effort to go on living. Then he would concentrate again, pick himself up almost literally, and resume normal routine with a look of inner determination. She wondered what was it that helped him get his resolve back. She wondered what was it that oppressed him so heavily.

She kept getting back to the thought that visited her on the morning when she sneaked into his room and saw him sleeping – the one about the curse. When she first started to observe him closely, she thought that his erratic manner was a mask he wore to hide his true nature. Now she came to think it was not entirely voluntary in him. He could not be one way, or the other. He could not disengage two parts of himself from one another. There was a man in him, and… that _other thing_, inhuman. The man seemed kind and gentle. The thing felt alien and incomprehensible; there was no way of telling how it operated, what it thought and how it would react. The man was attractive and warm. The thing was also beautiful in some terrifyingly magnificent way. Both man and… beast were inseparable, and suffered from that; the beast felt chained, the man repressed. He was forced to be like he was, forced by something great and evil. Yes, evil: for if it were not evil he would have been happy as he was. And he wasn't happy – one look at him told her as much. He was in pain, and she felt a great urge to help him – as one would want to comfort a suffering animal or a man that lost his bearings.

She wished there was a way to help – to comfort him, to free him from his burden, to save from the dark shadow that seemed to be covering his life. Standing in the vast wilderness, which she imagined her life to be, she wished she could reach out and take his hand, so that they would cross the rocky desert together.

Was it too ambitious to believe that he needed her? Wasn't she getting ideas above her station? After all, she was just an ordinary girl, a silly princess from a little kingdom. And he was… what he was.

She didn't know, and she didn't know how to learn. There were no appropriate books on the subject. God knows she tried to find out – she scanned the books in the library, looking for all sorts of magical legends and tales. The story of the Dark One wasn't among them: she had no way of knowing where he came from or when it happened. It seemed he was always there – people always talked about 'The Dark One', for thousands of years. Could it be about him? Was he immortal – eternal? How old was he?

She was too shy to ask him directly, she didn't want to offend him with impertinence. She was afraid to hurt him by asking about his 'normal' side, therefor inferring that something was wrong with him. He was a proud thing, she felt.

One day, walking around the castle, she came into one of the small rooms in the Northern tower. It was a strange room, not really belonging to the place. There was a small bed here, and a very battered rocking horse – an old child's toy. And there was some clothing – a tunic and a pair of shoes, small, as if for a boy. It couldn't have been His clothing – he was a slight man, but not that slight.

The things in this room looked unbearably sad.

Her curiosity was aflame. She felt that until she learned the mystery of this child, she'd never know peace. And, without learning this mystery, she'd never understand her master.


	12. Chapter 12

12

He couldn't stay away from her forever, however much he tried after the incident with the ladder and his frightening over-reaction to it. It was not possible from a purely practical point of view – they had to meet from time to time; he'd happen to need something in the room where she worked, and than they'd meet at meals. And it was not possible – unbearable – for him to stay away from her, for all the selfish reasons: his longing, his desire, his need to see her bright face and thus to get the confirmation of the fact that the sun has risen; his yearning to be comforted by her presence. He has grown… dependent on her. He was in pain when he was alone, by himself, and that pain eased only when she was near him. He had to be near, even if just to look at her, otherwise he couldn't make himself go on breathing, couldn't find the resolve to do what he was doing – to complete what he had started.

He had a task in life – a mission. His whole existence for hundreds of years (goodness, was it really that long?) was dominated by a single purpose – to find his son. For all the terrible things he did in life, the one moment of weakness when he betrayed Bae's trust and let him go was by far the most terrible. But it was not irredeemable. It could be put right. He could find him, and beg his forgiveness, and possibly get it. It was as simple as that, and he never stopped to think of it deeply, for fear of doubting. If he started to doubt, he would lose his determination, and then he might as well be dead, for his determination was his life-force. He never stopped; never wavered, never considered minor details and even major ones. For example, he never thought – forbade himself to think – of the fact that his quest went on for so unnaturally long. It really took centuries, and while it didn't matter for his immortal self, it meant a lot for his son, who spent all that time in the world without magic. How could he be still alive? He stopped himself from thinking of that. While imagining their reunion (vaguely, he never allowed himself to think of the details, not wishing to be carried away by hopes), he always thought, subconsciously, that he will find the boy he lost. But of course it couldn't be possible – if he did succeed, he'd find an old man. He couldn't picture that, he didn't want to – he had no right to doubt. There was a prophecy – he would find him, it was meant to happen. He stood by it. That used to give him strength. That used to be enough.

Yet now, when he has met Belle and loved her, he felt his resolve abandoning him. His was such an impossible, insurmountable task. He had to lay aside everything to achieve it. He had to deny himself all human connections – any affection was a distraction, seeping away his strength. And here, right in his grasp, was happiness, and its' pull was strong. The temptation to give in to it, to do something that _he_ wanted, to life for _himself_, for the first time in his life, was strong. It was so easy to tell himself: 'The prophecy was false, as all of them are. I will not be able to find him. I have to accept my loss and my guilt. My loss is immense, my guilt might crush me, but here, in this girl, are the very means to help me bear it – to help me survive and become a better, wiser man'. But of course if he did that he would betray his son all over again.

That was a paradox, one of many that constitute human life. Belle was the greatest distraction in his quest, the only thing that would tempt him to stray from the path to redemption. And she was the greatest source of consolation when he despaired, and the greatest support when his will weakened. He just had to look at her to believe there was something bright in the world, that there was hope, and miracles could indeed happen, and not only if orchestrated by him.

He must not let himself be carried away by selfish hopes of personal happiness; that much was clear to him. He was a parent, and parents don't think of themselves – they think only of their children. He was a faulty parent; he failed in his fatherhood, and that made him unworthy of happiness. He had to put things right first, and then he could possibly start thinking of his own wishes and desires. If he succeeded, there would be time for that. For now, he could not and would not abandon his task. He would carry on with his plan; he would make sure that the Queen casts his curse, after he made sure that the infant that would break it is born.

He would not be distracted or stopped. But he could use Belle to help him – to support him. There must be a way to combine these things. Why can't he love her, and still go on fighting for his son? Why would these things be contradictory? She could stay with him. She could continue to be the source of hope for him. He'd work better for that, for he'd be a better man. Love is supposed to enlighten and help. It could not – it would not – be an obstacle.

And what he felt for her _was_ love. Not just a crazed passion, an obsession with beauty and youth, for which he condemned himself after he gave in to his lust so disgracefully. He had time to think and reflect since then. He kept away from her for a while, he escaped temptation; he tried to temper his excitement at her closeness. And, while being away, while forcing himself to think of her nature rather then her looks, he found himself even more enchanted. After the depths of shame he felt that night, he thought he'd never be able to look at her; yet, when he did, he forgot the shame – one glance of her magical eyes made him feel elated and… pure.

This had nothing to do with passion. It had everything to do with hope.

It did cross his mind that, when he succeeded with his curse, he'd lose her – the focal point of the whole enterprise was to make lovers forget each other. But he cast that thought aside as insignificant. While the curse would be in force, they will not remember each other – they will not suffer. When the curse would break, he would find Bae, and then he would find Belle.

He thought of everything. He considered every detail. Nothing could go wrong.

A wise man said once that for every complex problem there is a solution that is simple, neat, and wrong.

He did not think of that.

That bright morning in early spring was one of the days when, however much he tried to restrain his wish to be near her, he couldn't help himself. He came down to the dining room, where she served him tea, and didn't escape back to the study. He lingered, watching her move gracefully around the room. She seemed to be in a happy and light mood; she kept smiling at him and sort of… following him around. It seemed she had something on her mind – she had a look of an inquisitive little bird, biting her lip, obviously trying to form some question. Finally, she literally chased him round the table and then, with sudden spontaneity that young people have, she sat on the table and looked up at him.

'Why did you want me here?' she enquired.

'Because you are the woman I am destined to love, and I couldn't let you go', would have been an honest answer. But there was obviously no way to blurt it out like that, so he made a face and sipped his tea: 'The place was filthy'.

That was a typical of him – she was accustomed to his manner to brush her off when she asked anything serious. Usually, she'd give up after such answers. Not this time. This time, she insisted on a normal conversation. Not just insisted – suddenly, without any sort of warning, she brought this conversation to an entirely new level.

'I think you were lonely. I mean, any man would be lonely', she ventured a guess.

He nearly choked on his tea. This was very _personal_. This showed she was thinking of him; cared for what was happening to him; was compassionate for him. It also went directly to the point and was acute. She understood him quite well, and felt confident to show it.

That was unexpected, and not very welcome. He still feared the power she held over him. He had to restore his position – to remind her that he was a dark wizard, thank you very much.

'I am not a man', he said.

He meant it to sound cold and distanced, as in 'I am not a man; I am The Dark One'. Instead, it sounded lame and self-pitying.

Embarrassed, he sat gingerly on the table near her, not wanting to be exposed to her curious eyes standing in front of her, yet at the same time meaning to show that he was not dismissing her; he wanted to go on talking. God, she was talking to him – she showed interest and compassion – she showed she cared!..

That was a mistake. He was suddenly very close to her – he hasn't been that close since she fell into his arms from the ladder. With her beautiful face just inches away from his, it was difficult to adhere to his policy of self-restraint. His heart accelerated. He turned away from her, looking at the floor.

And then she asked him about Bae. He felt suddenly heavy – one word, 'son', brought it all back: his face, his presence, his love, the good times, the laughter, and the awful moment when he was lost – all that came back to him, forcibly. He tried so not to think of it, to keep it at bay; it was so painful, and the pain itself could easily distract him from his task. He could not allow himself to become too emotional, for when he became too emotional, he made mistakes. Terrible ones.

Yet she wanted an explanation, and he had to give her one.

'There was. There was a son. I lost him – as I did his mother'.

He knew these few words were not enough, but he couldn't say more. He knew it was a right moment to tell her the story – to explain… He had to tell her, if he wanted any future with her. How could he hope to love her, how could he hope she'd help him if she had no idea what he was? He had to tell her, he had to talk to her, otherwise all their moments together would remain incomplete and lead to shame and darkness. But he couldn't. It was not just that it was not really possible to utter the words 'I killed his mother, and I let him fall into the magic portal while he was screaming for me'. Imagine what such a revelation would do to her – all compassion and interest would vanish from her eager face at once. It wasn't just that he didn't want to blacken himself in her eyes. He just couldn't really _speak_. His mouth was dry.

Yet she seemed to be satisfied – with the lightheartedness of youth she took his scarce information into her stride and went on, driving to the point she really wanted to make, asking something that really interested her. 'So you… You were a man once. An ordinary man'.

'_Oh yes, and you should have seen me then. It was pitiful'_, he thought bitterly.

And then it hit him. She was asking about _him_. She was interested _in him_.

Goodness gracious, could it really be happening? Could it be that, in all that time when he was dreaming of her and thinking of her, she was thinking of him in remotely the same way?

It seemed she was, for she continued: 'If I'm never going to know another person in my whole life, can't I at least know you?'

His heart thundered in his chest. Her choice of words, completely accidental of course, made this simple question deeply meaningful. 'To know' someone does not always mean just learning a character. It can also mean 'to possess'. A husband 'knows' his wife when he beds her for the first time. She wasn't going to know anyone in her life but him. She wanted to _know_ him.

It was complete madness. There was no way she could have meant it. He had to get a grip of himself, fast, before his imagination got the better of him.

He stood up, abruptly, and turned to face her. 'Perhaps…' he started with a sigh, and had to stop. God, no, no 'perhaps' about her 'knowing' him like that, or his head would burst. He had to lighten the mood, and his habitual quipping came in handy. 'Perhaps you just want to learn the monster's weaknesses, ah? Ah?'

Even as he joked, even as he waved a finger in playful warning to her he brought his face closer to hers, and felt he was drowning in her eyes. He wanted to stroke her cheek, to cup her face in his hands and slowly, slowly kiss her.

His distraction didn't work, anyway. She smiled at him indulgently, as she always did when he was fooling around, but she did not abandon the subject. 'You are not a monster', she said gently. 'You think you are uglier than you are…'

She went on about covered mirrors. He stood stunned, living through cruel awakening.

Ugly. She thought him ugly. Well, not _very_ ugly, as she inferred in her great kindness, but ugly still, and ashamed of it. It seemed she wanted to perk him up a bit, oh gentle soul.

How could he have been such a fool? How could he not think of it? How could he forget how the world must see him – how _she_ sees him? He lived at peace with himself – he was what he was, and looked as he had to. That's what _he was_, the heart and the face at one. But she saw a monster – a literal monster, a green beast with black claws and eyes of a snake.

To think what he was thinking of her. To imagine what he imagined, from her eager touch to her passionate kiss to her abandoning her body and her whole self to him. And all that time, she saw him as a lonely ugly creature of darkness, and _pitied_ him.

Oh, the _shame_ of it.

A knock at the door was very welcome. The sight of her stupid and handsome fiancée was more welcome still. He was so angry with himself he needed to let the steam off.

Turning a pretty mindless boy into a pretty mindless flower felt good.

He stood at the door for several moments, taking deep breaths, trying to arrange his thoughts. He knew that his feeling for her was unreciprocated; he knew that from the start. He hoped that she might love him, in time – and he knew it was just a dream. He knew she only touched him twice, and that he held her in his arms accidentally, and he knew that it was stupid to make anything out of these occasions. He told himself that, many a time. He just let himself get carried away somehow. He was so certain of his love for her that it felt entirely natural that she should feel the same way, at least to some extent, or at least to be inclined to feel the same way. Well, it was glaringly obvious now that she didn't, nothing was farther from her thoughts, and that cast an entirely new light on the whole situation.

His love made him extremely vulnerable to her. She had the power to crush him just as surely as if she held his heart in her pretty little hand. He had to know what she thought of him, really. How she felt. He had to know if there was any hope for him, or if he must distance himself from her as much as possible.

The Dark One cannot be killed with anything but his dagger, but right now it felt as if humiliation would do the job very nicely indeed.

He came back, carrying the rose behind his back. He gave her the flower, and wondered at the lightness and gentle teasing tone of his own voice. He was probably drawing strength from despair, how else he could be so outwardly calm, so playful?

He started asking her questions, urging her to tell him about herself. She responded hesitantly at first, doubting his interest, then eagerly, as shy young people do when they feel genuine interest. Watching delighted glow on her face, listening to her detailed explanations of her wishes and hopes, he thought how terribly young she was, and how neglected she must have been back there in that gloomy kingdom of hers. She was an odd one out there; nobody must have ever asked her about her feelings and wishes. A closeted life, an arranged marriage – it must have felt awful for such a bright, such an intelligent girl.

And what did he do to her? He took her from one prison, and placed into another.

And he dared to call it love.

He listened carefully as she explained her reasons for coming with him. Heroism. Sacrifice. A wish to prove herself. All wonderful, very natural reasons, which did her honor.

There was nothing that referred to him. He was a thing that moved the plot – his coming was just a factor of change. She didn't think of him otherwise. He had no other significance.

She didn't love him.

Love for her was an abstract thing, one supposed to happen in distant future, and she spoke of it with romantic dreaminess and idealism of a person who never felt the real thing.

As she moved about the room, glancing at him, smiling, making sure he understood what she means by this or that, and obviously flattered by his attention, she was truly, truly lovely. He couldn't take his eyes of her.

Never, never has he loved her more.

He loved her, body and soul, his heart bleeding with tenderness, and his whole being filled with deepest sadness.

She was such a bright and wonderful thing. She was a truly magical being – how could he not see that before? She glowed with magic, as if she wasn't born naturally, but shaped in some outer region by some beautiful force, entirely foreign to him.

She was a woman whom he would love till the day he dies. And, as he was immortal, that meant he would love her forever. But he could never touch her. It was like trying to touch a ray of sun and, by his very nature by touching her he could only cast a shadow on her.

With pain, he thought of another woman he thought he loved – oh, how well he knew the difference now. He told her he could only give her darkness and isolation. It was true then.

It was true now.

His lips were numb, not really his own, as he told her he was setting her free.

As she left the room, it visibly darkened. This had nothing to do with her leaving, of course – the weather changed, clouds obscured the sun. But it seemed very fitting to the way he felt. Darkness with which he belonged came to claim him.

He kept waiting for something to change in the magic that flowed around him. That change of fate, the magical reshaping of the universe, which he felt in her father's castle when she said 'Forever' to him – surely it must come undone now? He let her go, that deal is off – why doesn't the universe respond to it? Why doesn't the bond break?

He never thought that the spell that made the bond was not his, and wasn't for him to break. He was just too miserable to think.

He sat there, in the twilight matching his inner gloom, looking at the tray with tea things that she forgot on the table in her haste to leave, and trying to at least start imagining his life without her.


	13. Chapter 13

13

She stood by the castle gates, feeling lost.

The day had changed, drastically – sunny morning was chased away by dark, oppressive clouds. It felt like twilight, while it must have been afternoon still. She thought, dismally: what if the weather around here changes just as abruptly as His moods? She pictured the scene in the dining room, the scene that took place less then an hour ago. All seemed to be going well – he was in a good mood, and they were talking, at last; he answered her questions seriously, and he listened to her, really listened, with kindness and attention she rarely, if ever, received in her entire life. She blushed when she remembered the things she told him – somehow his kind eyes prompted her to voice dreams and hopes she never dared express before. It must have sounded like a silly girlish prattle to him, but he never showed any irritation. He asked her more questions. He smiled at her answers as if he understood.

And there was a moment, when he asked her about Gaston (gosh, she could hardly remember what the boy looked like!), and she started to tell him what her idea of love was… Well, it was a very strange, very delicate moment, for while voicing her rather abstract wishes, she suddenly felt it again – that gentle stirring of the heart she experienced when she looked at him in the carriage on the day when they were chasing the thief. She said that for her love was a mystery to be uncovered, and she thought of the mystery that He was for her, and of how much she wanted to solve it. And there was such a look in his eyes as she spoke that something in her soul whispered, softly, and urged her to tell him, aloud: 'Love is… like you'.

She blushed at the thought, and changed the subject, asking him about his son again.

And he seemed to clamp, instantly – not in the way he did before, when she just felt his pain at the loss, or at the memory of a loss. Then it was instinctive, he shunned from her to protect himself, and how could she blame him? It must be unbearable to lose a child. But this time, there was nothing spontaneous in his reaction to her question. He made some conscious decision; he spent a moment casting some inner vote with himself, and then he voiced his 'deal': he'd tell her the story if she came back from her errand in town. And then he told her, expressly, that he didn't expect her to come back.

Did he let her go? Or was he just so unwilling to share his past that it was easier to get rid of her then to talk to her?

On the surface of things, all was simple. She had an errand, and once she came back, she'd get a reward. That felt… belittling, as if she were a child who was promised a sweet for fetching something, but it was straightforward. On some other, deeper level she felt that something else has happened. His voice, his look, everything in his distanced manner told her that he was actually setting her free. He was calling off the deal they've made back in her father's castle. He didn't want her 'forever', not any more. He didn't want her at all.

She wondered why, and felt a pricking of angry tears. Why would he cast her away? Wasn't she good to him? Didn't she do all his bidding? Weren't they friends – well, companions, at least? Didn't he like her? Oh, it was so unjust. She tried so hard, she centered her whole existence around him; she thought of him constantly – sleeping or awake, he always seemed to fill her mind. She felt for his suffering, she shared his gloom and she laughed at his jokes, she wondered at his dark fate, she felt anguished because of his curse. She wanted to _help_ him. She cared for him, as he asked her to. And now, being suddenly without warning or explanation relieved from all responsibilities, she felt… cheated.

It didn't feel real, this sudden 'freedom'. Somewhere inside her she still felt bounded to him – connected with him. When she pictured that dark and barren land her life became when they've met, the land where he was her only companion, he was still there. He just stood at a distance, observing her dispassionately, as if wanting to know what she'd do.

Well, she'd show him! Let this cold, unfeeling man, unable to appreciate when people cared about him get a taste of his own medicine. He didn't expect to ever see her again? Well, he wouldn't. She _will_ go away, just as she was told. She would obey her 'master'. And if he needed some more straw, let him fetch it himself. And if he wanted _her_ again, forever or otherwise, let him go and find her. He was the Dark One, right? He could do anything. Surely he would have no difficulty in finding a person he has lost.

She pulled her hood closer over her head, jerked the basket for the straw angrily (it felt stupid to carry it with her now, but what could she do – throw it away?), and started walking away from the Dark Castle. With each step the practical Belle rejoiced. She was doing the right thing; she was getting free from a place that befuddled her mind, from a man who disturbed her soul. Did she, in all her fascination with him, forget that she was his prisoner – that her 'room', however comfortable now with all the beds and dressing-tables, was still a cell in a dungeon? Did she, in all her enthusiasm for bringing him teas and cleaning his floors, forget that she was a princess? Did she, with all her feeling of being irrevocably bounded with him, forget that hers was a free spirit, and she could make her own decisions? He never told her what he wanted from her, and he was a dark wizard with a reputation of a ruthless monster. How could she be even sure that her interest in him and her fascination with his mystery were _her_ real feelings, and not a result of him meddling with her mind for some devious reasons of his own?

She had to get away, even if just to check whenever being away from his influence would alter her feelings. She needed a breath of air, a bit of space to think and reflect. Her life was so _full_ of him since the second they've met, she hardly knew herself anymore. Her entire soul seemed to be… crowded by him; he was in every nook and corner of her mind. She needed to be free to think and feel freely, then she'd know what she really thought of him, and how she felt.

Thus reasoned the practical Belle; the dreaming Belle, deaf to the voice of reason, kept repeating dully: 'I have to come back'. Whatever he meant, however he offended her with his sudden dismissal, he was hurting – that was obvious. Something hurt him. May be she hurt him, somehow? Perhaps she could help him. What if he was sitting there alone in the dark, desolate, as she sometimes saw him? What if he unleashed his frustration on someone innocent? What if he moaned now, as she heard him moan sometimes? What happened to her wish to comfort him, to ease his pain? Surely that wish was not induced by his dark magic – he was too proud to induce in her anything like that; something in her nature made her sorry for him. She did not need the time and space to feel compassion. She did not need a clear mind to see that he fascinated her, still. She kept seeing the sad and resigned look in his eyes. She kept feeling how his hand trembled when she held it. She kept blushing remembering how he gave her the flower. And moreover, the questions about him – what was he, why was he like that, what made him so sad – kept nudging at her brain. And that had nothing to do with his influence, evil or not. It was about herself – her own soul, her own mind, her own curiosity. She would never be at peace with herself until she knew him. It was worse than having a good book snatched from her, unfinished.

She had to get away. She had to come back. Oh, why was she so _confused_?..

She stood in the middle of the road, knowing she must make some sort of decision, soon. And then she heard a carriage behind her, and looked back to see if perhaps it was Him – coming to ask her to get back, for his mood changed, yet again. But it was a strange carriage, and it stopped by, and a beautiful woman came out and insisted on walking by her side, drawing her into an uncomfortably intimate conversation.

The woman was smiling at her and asking kind questions, but Belle couldn't help feeling there was something sinister about her. Her skin was dark, her eyes and hair black and, despite her rich dress, she looked like a gypsy. And, as one does when approached by gypsies, Belle felt unable to control the situation. She felt that she was being fooled, but couldn't disengage herself. She did not want to talk to this woman, let alone tell her anything important. Yet she found herself telling her secrets and sharing intimate thoughts. She did not want to discuss her master, yet she was doing it. She did not want to ask for advice, yet she did. She did not want to trust this woman, but she trusted her.

She felt as if she has fallen under some dark spell, and wondered vaguely how could she, just moments ago, suspect her master of meddling with her mind? With him, she never felt like that – captured, helpless, completely in somebody else's power.

The dark woman seemed to look deep into her soul, and brought to light something that Belle didn't see for herself – something that she, until now, hasn't even considered.

The woman asked her if she was running from her lover. And this word, this idea made Belle's world stop for a second.

Her lover. A person she loves. Could it be true? Could it be Him?

In her childhood and teenage years, as she read her books, of course she had thought of love – dreamed of being in love, of meeting a man who will turn her world around, filling her life with new meaning. Any girl does that. She generally preferred dark strangers to handsome princes – the former were intriguing, the latter rather boring. But she never really got around to building a mental image – it was pointless, not practical; she was promised, her life was mapped out for her, what was the point of dreaming of something different? She dreamed of love, yet she never expected to fall in love. Such things just didn't happen to princesses in real life, for a life of a real princess is as unlike a fairy-tale as could be.

Yet a man came into her life, and turned her world around. He carried her away from her father's castle, just as heroes in books did, and he filled her life with new meaning. With him, nothing was ordinary or dull or expected. With him, everything was amazing and strange. He filled her with wonder and awe. She feared him, a little. He invaded her thoughts during the day and her dreams at night. She wanted to sit at his feet and feel his hand on her hair. Something in her soul leaned his way, all the time. Her heartbeat fastened when he entered the room. He teased her, and gave her flowers. He was graceful. His body was warm, and it felt wonderful to be embraced by him. She liked his laugh. His gilded skin was beautiful. He was the most powerful man in the world. He was lonely. He looked at her with tenderness and longing. He trembled at her touch. He needed her. He suffered. He hid his true nature and his true feelings. She wanted to help him. He was the mystery she wanted to spend her life uncovering.

He held her captive in so many ways.

He sent her away so that she could come back. He just pretended he didn't want her.

He did want her – forever.

She promised to be with him forever, and she was so glad of this promise now.

She pictured that desert where she imagined them standing together, and it didn't seem so dark and chilly any more. The darkness was ebbing away.

If only there was a way to help him – to ease his pain, to take away the shadow that hang over him, making him angry, volatile, secretive, and unhappy. That shadow made him stay away from her – that shadow stopped him from being open and free with her. That shadow was evil, for it brought him pain; it pulled him into darkness, and it kept merging the man and the beast in such a complicated way that it was impossible to help him.

That shadow didn't let her see him clearly, and know him fully. And right now she could have given anything to know him as he really was.

The dark woman smiled at her, with a weird sort of triumph, and said there was a way to dispel this shadow. She said it was a curse, and it could be broken. And at this moment, in her eagerness to believe the best, Belle forgot all her mistrust and misgivings and all her thoughts of dark magic. The woman told her what she most wanted to hear.

She knew it was a curse, always, and now she knew there was a way to help him – a magical one, but how else could it be, if everything about him was magical?

There were words that He, her master, said often enough: magic always comes with a price. Eager to cling to his every word usually, she didn't remember those ones. Not then.

The dark woman was gone as suddenly as she appeared.

She was alone in the middle of the road again. Night was approaching. She had to hurry. She was thinking, fast. She must return, and behave as naturally as she could – he mustn't think that anything was out of the ordinary. He sent her to fetch some straw, he promised her a story – she must return with this straw, and ask for her story. She mustn't betray her newly found goal. She also mustn't let him suspect that she hesitated, that she didn't want to come back, even for a second; he will be hurt, and would withdraw from her, and she didn't want that.

All that meant that she couldn't return at once, as she wanted to. She had to get to town and find the straw first. She ran all the way to the village, and half the way back, slowing down only when she approached the castle. She needed to slow her breathing, to collect her thoughts a little bit – she reminded herself he mustn't notice how exited she was.

Her heart was singing, and she couldn't stop smiling. Her master. Her _lover_. How strange and how beautiful the word sounded. She never imagined it would be like that, yet it felt so right. She never looked at him that way, yet once she did she wondered – what other way was there to look at him, ever?

She never imagined that the man she'd love would be like him. Yet now it was obvious there could be no other man.


	14. Chapter 14

14

The road leading from the castle winded through the trees, clouded with dusk, and disappeared in the darkness as the forest thickened. He did not know why he was watching it, standing by the window of his study where he retreated to brood, for hours now. It has been _hours_. She wasn't coming back. Why would she? He told her not to, and she had no reason of her own to disobey his order.

It hurt. It hurt that she left, so easily, so eagerly. It hurt to know she wouldn't want to return – wouldn't even think of it. It hurt to realize, with absolute clearness, that everything that happened between them did happen only in his mind. The thought that it was a good thing, anyway, that something light and wonderful has entered his life, even if in such a contorted way, didn't help. He might have been consoled that he had known love, at least, even if such a hopeless one. He wasn't. He might have drawn comfort from the knowledge that he did a good and right thing in letting her go. He didn't. It still hurt.

Hoping, against hope and reason, that she'd come back, that he'd strain his eyes just a little bit more and see her returning figure on the dark road – walking briskly, swinging her basket – was the worst. Hope hurt the most.

That was why, when she did appear on the road, exactly as he imagined her, he didn't believe his eyes at first. He had to close them, and look again.

It was true.

She was coming back.

He ran down the stairs, leaping across the steps, trying not to choke on his heart, which jumped right up his throat. He sat at the spinning wheel, nearly tripping it over, and tried to appear nonchalant, knowing that he was failing, dismally. He was sure she'd see right through him, see the state he was in – she did possess an uncanny ability to penetrate into his soul.

Stop it, he told himself. She has no such ability – you have invested her with it in your obsession with her. She cares nothing for you. She is just a curious child, and she wants to hear the story that you've promised to tell her.

She entered the room, carrying the basket of straw. His stuttering comment on the fact sounded pitiful even to his own ears. She brushed it away: 'Come on, you are happy that I'm back'. Her face smiled at him through the spokes of the wheel.

'Oh, if only you knew', thought he. 'I am not unhappy', he said aloud.

He meant his voice to sound light, but he sounded nervous. She seemed changed, somehow. She lost all her shyness, she was remarkably easy around him; she had a decisive 'no-more-of-this-nonsense' air about her. This unnerved him, slightly. No, this unnerved him greatly. He wondered what brought on this change in her. He still couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that she was, actually, here again. She came back.

He turned away from her radiant face, and started fussing with the wheel, fingering the spokes, wishing there was some more effective way to hide his reaction to her, to gain some time to get accustomed to the fact that she was near him – unbearably close to him.

She didn't give him time. With pitiless decisiveness of youth she closed the distance between them – she walked around the wheel, placed her hands on his shoulders and whispered into his ear: 'You promised me a story'.

She touched his shoulders. Her face was just an inch away from his. What's come over her?

He was too stunned to even get exited.

'Did I?' His voice betrayed him, yet again. No nonchalance here, no easy forgetfulness.

She moved again, she took the spindle from his hand, brushing it lightly and sending shivers across his entire body; then she sat on the stool by his feet, making him start and give a little exclamation of surprise – she was like a small whirlwind of happy activity, and he was caught in the middle of it, mercilessly attacked by her light touches, by her closeness, by the wave of warmth she excluded. Everything he dreamed of, everything he pictured in slow and sensual detail came rushing on him – the state of intimacy that he imagined would take months to achieve was achieved in a matter of seconds, and he was plainly overwhelmed by it all. She paid his embarrassment no heed – ruthless, as all young people are she didn't give him time to collect himself.

She placed a hand on his _thigh_, as if it were a completely natural thing to do, and said: 'Tell me about your son'.

His mind was blank. He was looking into her eyes, breathing in her breath, and burning where her hand touched him.

She didn't display any sort of shyness at their closeness. Did she not realize what she was _doing_ to him? Perhaps she didn't. She looked up into his eyes; her face was alight with interest and curiosity. She was a curious child, and she wanted her story.

Unfortunately, he had no voice to tell it.

'I… lost him', he stammered. 'There's nothing more to tell, really'.

He expected a disappointed frown, and hundreds of questions – in her newly acquired brashness he'd expected her to pester him with questions.

Instead, her face became mellow and dreamy, and her eyes misted over with tenderness. 'And, since then, you've loved no one. And no one has loved you'.

Her voice was just as her face – full of dreams, gentle. What was _happening_ to her? Why did she move so close, all of a sudden?

Why did she spoke of love?

Could it be?.. Could it be happening?

He looked into her loving eyes, and whispered: 'Why did you come back?'

She gave a small apologetic smile. 'I wasn't going to. Then…' Oh, that dreamy, gentle look again! 'Something changed my mind'.

With that, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. Awkwardly, like a child pecking a parent on the cheek; trustingly, as if giving her life over to him; innocently, as if pressing a flower to his face; hopefully, as if seeing the light; gently, like a lover; powerfully, as if casting a spell.

He imagined their kiss, over and over again. He imagined the softness and the tenderness, the wetness, the sweet pulling of his lips on hers – he was feeling it, now… He imagined the unraveling of his heart, and the onset of longing. He imagined sighing with wonder and awe – he was feeling that now, too. He never imagined this kiss to take him over so. He felt as if a great wave washed over him, drowning him and carrying back ashore instantly. He felt weak and shaking, as if coming down with a fever, and coming to after a long spell of sickness. He felt like he was dying – disappearing in her; and it was final, awful and unbearably sweet.

'What's happening?' His voice was small, as if he were a child.

She was exultant – her eyes blazed with triumph and hope. 'Kiss me again – it's working!'

'What is?'

He frowned. Something was wrong. Something about it – something about _him_ – felt wrong.

She put her hands on his shoulders and said, looking into his eyes with devotion, and earnestness, and – yes, love: 'Any curse can be broken'.

And then he placed it – the uneasy feeling in him.

His leg, his mutilated leg was hurting.

He was human again.

He jumped back, tripping over his chair, as if she scalded him with boiling water.

The curse – she was breaking the curse. She was turning him into that shivering heap of damaged flesh and weak spirit and dirty rags he used to be. She was taking away his power – she was taking away his dignity. She was robbing him of his _self_. She was taking away his life – the meaning of it… If he were like _that_ again, he'd never find his son.

How could she do this to him? Didn't she realize?..

But of course she didn't – how could she?

How would she know anything about curses, anyway?

He was stepping farther away from her, frightened and angry, shouting questions at her, ignoring her fear and pain. His fury helped – it always helped, all his magic used to be born out of fury, and it served him again. The awful weakness left him, he felt more himself again, and he looked like himself again – a glance at his hands told him so.

But his leg still hurt, though slightly – he felt a ghost of a limp as he rushed towards the mirror to rage at Regina. Why would _she_ do this to him? Whatever did he do to offend her so deeply? Ah, but she was not to blame. This poor girl knew only hate – he taught her himself.

But Belle… She knew about love – she _was_ love. Why would she turn love against him?

But of course it was all a lie. There was no love anywhere but in his head. She acted a hero – she was killing a beast. Proving herself… That's why she came back. That's why she was so eager, so determined. Oh, how cruel she was, and how powerful. How easily she fooled him with her loving look.

He was screaming at her, hardly registering his own words. She looked frightened, and shocked – she never saw him like that, he never let himself go like that in her presence. But still she found in her the courage to fight him.

'It was working!..'

Her eyes, her magical eyes looked into his, fighting his fury, trying to break into his soul again, convincing him, against all odds that she did love him, that she meant well, and it was all just a terrible mistake.

'Shut up!' If he continued to look into her eyes, if he would let her say what she wanted to say, he'd lose this fight. He'd believe her, again. And he'd be gone.

'This means it's true love!' She was shouting now, too.

She was reaching out to him, with all her being. It must have meant something for her. She was losing something, too. She said the words, and he knew them to be true. He could not doubt her. It was working. It was true love.

She did love him. Ugly and evil and incomprehensible to her as he was she did love him. She didn't really know him, but she loved him.

Oh how incredibly, impossibly cruel life was to rob him of hope, to turn his only consolation into the thing that kills him.

'Shut the hell up!' He felt it, there in the room – the magical power bigger that his own, ready to crush him if only he let himself listen to her, let himself believe the look in her eyes. It took all his will not to let it in – love splashed all around him like waves of an ocean. One moment of weakness and it would engulf him.

'Why won't you believe me?' She was pleading with him now, with tears in her eyes.

He got hold of her shoulders and shook her. She gasped, truly frightened.

'_Because it is not about me believing you. It's about me losing myself. You don't know what you want. You don't even know whom do you want. You will not even know me if you win'._ Oh, how much did he want to stop his ravings, and say the words; but if he did that, love would rush into his soul again, and he'd be lost.

How horribly and unnaturally calm he was, somewhere deep inside, as he searched for something to stop her, to stop the raging of the alien power around him. How incredibly he hurt at the knowledge of doom that befell them.

The words came, finally, born out of this awful inner calm, brought to the surface by fury and pain: 'Because no one – no one – could ever, ever love me!'

It worked. The power around him went still and sipped away, slowly, accepting the victory of darkness. The great flow of magic filling the world changed, subtly, again – he felt it moving, as it moved when Belle said 'forever' to him, such an impossibly long time ago.

She felt it, too, for she looked at him in horror, and it was not his face, distorted with fury, that frightened her.

She felt magic happening, as she did then.

She must have truly loved him to feel for him so.

The great coldness came over him, even in the midst of his rage. It hung over him as he dragged her to her cell, barren and cold again, and as he moved about the castle, crushing everything his eyes fell on. He could rave and scream all he wanted now, he could weep, he could roar in pain, he could complain and regret – it mattered not. He could listen to her accusations; listen, unblinkingly, how she called him a coward and doubted his ability to believe her and take a chance of happiness. There was no point to explain now, no point telling her that it was not about himself, or her, and certainly not about happiness. It really did not matter if she understood, not anymore. He could really let her go, now, and even the spell she put on him before she left did not matter in the face of greater things.

Love could not touch him now, nor would it ever.

It was done. He has cursed himself.


	15. Chapter 15

15

Something awful has happened, she felt. Not just an ugly scene, when she was rejected, humiliated, hurt and cast away. That happened, too – it filled her with anger and wounded her pride, it brought on a sense of helplessness such as she never knew before, and crushed her with immediate and irrevocable loss: the light, the happiness were just there, she touched them, and then they were snatched from her by the very man who had power to bestow them. She was offended in her best feelings and intentions. She lost something that she wanted – him. And she felt the loss all the more because she had a chance to taste the prize she sought: she did kiss him, and she did feel his love, and her own, and what was just a fantasy became reality for a second, and it was magical. And he turned it all away there on the spot, and the pain of rejection was worse because she now knew exactly was she was loosing. It wasn't just a dream, it was _real_, and he didn't want it. That seemed important, at first – the need to blame him was overpowering. But, even as the whirlwind of anger and self-pity engulfed her, she felt there was something else. Something beyond the obvious, something much more powerful and sinister. Something that couldn't be patched or explained calmly, something that couldn't be discussed and amended.

Something irredeemable.

Something changed between them, making it impossible for her to reach him. Even as he screamed at her, even as he raged at her attempt to make him happier, she still felt he was open to her – he was _with_ her. And then he was gone – distanced from her in an almost physical way, as if encased inside impenetrable glass. She still could see him, and feel him, oh so close to her – she just couldn't touch him. Of his fear and anger at her attempt to help him she could have asked him. As days passed, she has reached a conclusion she really _should_ have asked him, before rushing into things, but at that time it didn't seem necessary: she was so confident, so sure they both wanted the same thing. She would have done things differently if she were not so young, and so elated by her discovery of loving him. She might have guessed there was much more to him, and to his existence, than she saw in her fascination. She knew he was a mystery to her – she might have asked some questions before trying to change his life for him. Yes, about the circumstances of his actions she could have asked him – she could have explained her reasons and may be, just may be they could have forgiven each other. But in the face of his distancing she was helpless. Nothing she could do or say would have any effect. When he was sending her away, meaning it this time, she tried to stir him – she voiced her anger, she confirmed her hope, she even insulted him, and she made an extreme effort to bind him to her, feeling something akin to magic flow through her as she voiced her prophesy of his eternal regret. It worked – she saw it in his eyes that he felt the bond forming. But it was all in vain. She felt his pain, and knew he feels hers, however much he tried to hide it, but he was unmovable, as if frozen.

It was maddening – to see and feel him clearly, to know every stirring of his heart directed on her and still be unable to connect with him. She felt so helpless. To see him suffering was torture. That's what became paramount to her as time passed – his pain. She felt it when, sitting in her cell, too angry to cry, she heard him raging around the castle, crushing things around him. She flinched at the sound of every breakage, and her heart constricted at the inhuman sound of his howling. He was like an animal in agony, and she wanted to rush out to him and console him – she wanted to simply hold him, letting the pain slowly leave his body. But she could not, for she knew that in some way incomprehensible to her _she_ was the very thing that caused the pain. She was the reason he suffered. She did something to cause all that grief.

He calmed down, after a while, and the silence felt worse than the raging. The hours passed, and she went through all stages of anger and regret. And then there was a whiff of purple smoke in the room, and when it cleared there was a tray with a teapot and 'her' chipped cup on it on the floor.

That was when she cried.

He cared for her, he truly did. He loved her – she saw it, so clearly, and felt it, so deeply. He looked at her so – how could she ever forget his face, his eyes when he searched her soul with his look, trying to understand why she came back to him. He wanted her so – she felt his whole body reach out to her, even as he tried to shy away. He looked at her as if she was a miracle. He sighed so – he made such a weird and wonderful sound when she kissed him, such a small and weightless sound, like a breath of the opening heart. She knew that he loved her, beyond doubt, when she heard it. But somehow love wasn't enough, and it was so unjust. Love was supposed to conquer everything, but it didn't.

Perhaps she wasn't strong enough. Perhaps she needed to know him better – perhaps her love, great as it was, was just… too blind, yet, and didn't find a right way to his heart. Perhaps she needed to know herself better. She tried to change the man she loved into a man she didn't know – perhaps it was wrong. She did see the face of that other man in her dreams and she glimpsed him, briefly, when they kissed. He didn't look that different from Him, but may be there was more than met the eye.

Perhaps love _wasn't_ enough, and something more was needed. Like courage, or understanding, and capacity to forgive. She had no problem with that – she forgave him, very soon after she left the castle. He hurt her, he did wrong by her, but love he brought her was more valuable then any wrongdoing: she knew him, and she loved, and that was a reward in itself, though this noble thought wasn't always enough to console. And anyway he could not be blamed – he was but a victim of something beyond him. She needed to know him better to understand what it was. She needed courage to come back again and find out, despite his rejection, despite her fear to be rejected again – and of course she feared that, she was only human. But she was determined to come back, nevertheless. She owed it to herself. She could not live, feeling his pain all the time. She would never be complete without reaching him again.

Yes, that was very clear to her – despite all that happened, despite that horrible impenetrable wall that stood around him now, they were still connected. The bond between them existed – pulsating like a living thing, hurt and bleeding, but alive. In the vast wilderness of her life she was still not alone. There was still no other path before her but the one they were destined to walk together. He was there, and he watched her from a distance, and he was in pain and in chains, and it was up to her to find a way to hold his hand, if nothing else. Yes, it was up to her, because she was free, while he was imprisoned.

She felt so even as she was imprisoned herself. Every day of her captivity at the hands of the evil dark woman she once met on the road, the woman that destroyed her life, yet showed her a way to happiness, she told herself that no walls could hold her forever – they cannot be kept apart forever. They were promised to each other – they said 'forever' to each other, and there was no breaking that bond. Nothing as big and powerful as the love she felt when they kissed could be defeated. She kept holding on to that moment. She kept seeing his face – alight with wonder, open, childlike, and so beautiful now in her mind's eyes. She kept hearing his sigh.

God, she _missed_ him so – missed everything in him, from his voice and his laugh to his touch and the glimmer of gold on his skin. The worst was when she dreamed of him, and woke up to find herself alone.

She cried a lot. But she never despaired. Even when, after what seemed like ages she felt some strange and terrible movement in the world around, she wasn't really frightened. Strangely alert to everything connected with him, she sensed it was magic, and that it was his. It all felt like the end of the world, the earth trembled and the clouds of black smoke filled the air. It was not like smoke from a fire; it was cold, and it didn't smell of burning. It went through the air changing it, somehow.

She should have been frightened, then. But she wasn't, for in the clouds of this smoke she thought she glimpsed his face. And it didn't frighten her that she was dying – he was with her, and that was all that mattered.

And then she woke up, and was lost. She did not know what she was, and what her life was about. She had no memories and no dreams. Some part of her was missing, and she felt it, but didn't even know what was it that she missed. She had no way of finding out. She looked into her soul to find answers, and saw only a vast and wild land, covered with cold mist, ravaged by cruel winds, looked upon blindly by stormy sky. There was no sense of direction here, everything was lost in darkness. And in this darkness, she was completely alone.


	16. Chapter 16

16

Time seized to be. There was no difference between day and night now, no passage of days and months, no change between light and darkness. There _was_ no light. He was in darkness, all the time, and in pain. His whole body screamed as if under torture, and there was no healing for him. Magic cannot heal a suffering soul. She could have helped him – she was the only thing in the world that could have saved him. One glance at her, the very feeling of her presence would have been enough. Yet she was the only person in the world he could not let near him.

He was a wizard; he should have known everything about curses. He should have forethought that the curse he put upon himself, closing himself against the onslaught of love, would have its' consequences. The side-effects, so to speak; but these are always difficult to predict when one is cursing oneself. In his rage, in his rush to save his magic and his self he did not see the obvious: the glaring and fatal flaw in his curse. Yes, it worked effectively – she could not reach him anymore, her love was struggling in vain against the spell that surrounded him, unable to get through to him; she could not love _him_. But it did not stop him from loving her.

Her love was powerless, now, though still present. His love was locked with him in his cell, burning him all the stronger because it now had no chance to fulfill itself. His curse did not stop his longing; it did nothing to weaken the pull he felt towards her. It did not diminish his frustration and regret, and his wish to run to her for consolation. Diminish? Why, they came back hundredfold, made stronger by his knowledge of the total impossibility of getting what he wanted, by his guilt at having broken things himself, by his anger at himself. Yes, he was angry at himself. While he was dreaming of her, picturing their union, while he was basking in the happiness of having her near, while he gloried in the miracle of having found his one true love – how could he have not thought of the power of this magic? He should have seen it coming – he should have at least thought of a possibility of her kiss changing him. Yes, her kiss worked with such terrifying force because she meant it to work. But it could have happened anyway; their love was such that she might have ruined him unwittingly. What was he thinking of? How could he have been so blind and careless? And what was the point of dwelling on that, now that everything was lost? He would not have been able to stop himself, anyway, even if he did see the coming end. Looking back, he knew he would not have been able to change a single thing between them. Well, he could have been wiser, and more honest with her. He could have explained her things about himself. But how was he to know? Her loving him was just a distant possibility in his mind – he had no way of learning it would hit him so suddenly.

Roaming his castle at night, pestering the magic land by day while carrying out his various errands, he never was completely there, with people whom he met. His mind was always elsewhere – he was thinking of her, calling to her, longing for her. He yearned for things that only she could give him – for things that _were_ her, from her beauty to her stubborn kindness. Anger did not help him distract himself – he could not be angry with her; it took him very little time to work out her reasons for trying to change him. Once he accepted the truth that she did love him, and he had no choice but to do it, in the face of things this love achieved, he could see clearly that there was no malice in her deed. She pitied him. She cared for him. She thought that he suffered from his curse. She did not know him, for she had no chance to know him. She knew only what she saw, and what she saw touched her and moved her. It was amazing that she loved him so strongly without knowing him at all. But then, that was magic.

She wanted to help him. What was it that she said? 'You were freeing yourself, you could have been happy…' Poor child. How simple, how straightforward life was for her, how strongly she believed in the importance of love, and how sweet was her determination to right the wrongs. How he needed this simplicity, this generosity of heart, and how impossible it was for him to get them. She would have given him a second chance; she was kind. And, given the force of his love for her, she might have broken the new magic wall he surrounded himself with. But he could not ask for that, for he did not have the right to happiness, and did not have the right to freedom. Now, after the way he treated her, he had even less right to them than before. His crime against Bae's trust came back to haunt him, and he committed it all over again. For the second time he rejected a person who loved him and whom he loved for the sake of his power. The fact that in the second case he had some justification did not matter. He committed a second crime in an attempt to cover for the first – he was just getting deeper into the darkness. He had offended love in two worst possible ways – he has abandoned a child, and he has rejected his true love. No wonder love punished him so, tormenting him with the yearning for the impossible, with memories of things that happened, and of things imagined that were right here, in his grasp, and were now gone.

Every second of every day he wanted to crawl to her on his knees, asking for forgiveness, begging her to use her magical strength to free him – he knew she could have done it, for, despite his curse, despite this new self-imposed punishment, he could still feel their bond; weak and wounded, it still glowed in the dark, still pulled on the strings that connected his heart with hers. It was amazing, it was hardly believable, but then, he knew better than anyone that magic always worked in strangest ways. She was holding that bond – in the vastness of magical space he felt her will, her hope, her determination to reach him, to show him that she knew him better than he knew himself. His curse said she could never love 'him', whoever he was. Her love, reaching for him in the darkness, showed him that she knew that 'he' was not who he thought he was – there was a man inside him he didn't see clearly, but she did. Not the beast, not the ordinary man whom she seemed to want at first – somebody else. His true self, perhaps. She just didn't find a way to embrace him yet. But she would – who else would discover a man's true self but his true love? And he wanted her to. His relentless love for her showed that he wanted her to change him, despite all his reasoning. It was absurd – of course he could not break the bond when his whole soul strove to keep it.

He was holding their bond, too. And cursing himself. And raging with regret. And crying with longing. And burning with hope that somewhere, somehow things could right themselves. In a way, he was just as stubborn a dreamer as she was – no wonder they fell in love.

And then he was told she was dead.

His pupil, his daughter (he always thought of her as of such, for in all ways apart from the purely formal one she was his child), his ungrateful creation came to him and told the news in a light, calculatedly sneering way, watching his reaction, waiting for him to collapse. How did he manage to create such a monster?

He did not collapse, not in front of the Queen, though he gave her enough reason to gloat. And, when she left, he did not collapse either. He did not rage, nor break anything around him, as he did sometimes when passion overcame him. He felt no passion now, and no rage. He was… cold. He even reflected, wildly, that it was weird – he should have been crushed with grief, overcome by loss, devastated with guilt. But then he realized, with sudden lightheartedness, that the coldness he felt didn't mean that he didn't care any more. He was cold simply because he was dead. Dead like her. Yet he was walking around, and even breathing. His body moved, as if on its' own volition, and took 'her' cup from the shelf, and placed it on the pedestal in the middle of the room, to remain there forever, meant to show him his own humility and helplessness, meant to always, always remind him that there are things that are, once done, could not be undone.

His world was empty. She was gone, she was gone forever, and he was gone with her. He could never think of her, as he used to. He could not dream of her. He could not turn to her, in his thoughts, for hope and consolation. He could not remember her. Any of these actions would mean he had a right to touch her or reach her, to be with her, and he had no such right. Everything that filled his mind, everything he was, was now forbidden to him. It was untouchable. His very soul was not his anymore.

And yet he could not die.

That was when he wept.

It all went downhill from there, spiraling almost out of control. He stopped sleeping, for fear of closing his eyes and seeing her face – for of course he did dream of her, however sternly he forbade himself to. He stopped eating, for the thought of feeding his body, supporting life in it repelled him. He became truly ruthless in his dealings, for he dealt with loving people, and he hated them. He had to help them – he had to unite a loving couple so that they would serve his means, but he hated them, he envied them, and he burned with the wish to explain to them just how blind they were in their self-confidence. He felt an eager and pitiful desire to belong with them – it was stronger that ever now that he knew he had a chance to that, and lost it. Sometimes he couldn't stop himself and would even mention her.

He had to share the fact that he had a suffering heart, as if anybody would care.

He acted and looked in a truly weird manner now – people had talked that he was mad, for many years now, and now he really did behave like a madman.

He _was_ going mad for, with all irrevocable knowledge of his loss, he still felt her. The bond was still there – holding on to him, held on to by him, unbroken, unchanged. He loved her still, but that was only natural: he was meant to love her forever. He felt her love still, which was beyond magic. Oh yes, people said that true love surpasses the grave, but that was supposed to mean memories, blissful or stained, but just memories nevertheless. She was no memory for him. She was _real_. He tried to shut himself out from her, but it was impossible, of course. He could not break the bond while she was alive – how could he do it now, when she was gone and beyond his power?

He must have truly, truly offended love for it to treat him so. The torment of loving and feeling the love that was unfulfilled, and had to remain unfulfilled in a very final way was punishment that defied his imagination.

He wondered if _that_ was the price for the miracle of finding her at all.

A dead man raked with constant pain, he drove on with the building of his curse, relentlessly, though sometimes he would have difficulty reminding himself what and why he was doing. The mission he set himself seemed empty and hopeless and very distant, moved to the edges of his mind by his immediate loss – _that_ loss felt just as fresh and cutting a year later as it did the moment it happened. Yet he kept going, like a mechanical toy, or a slaughtered chicken that keeps running even after it was beheaded.

Imprisoned by the 'good ones', he felt relieved. There was no need for pretense or action, no need for magic – and he was _tired_ of magic by now, exhausted by it, eaten away. He could really let himself go now, and howl and rage in his cage like a beast they have branded him to be long ago. He could really become the dark and horrible creature he felt inside.

If only he could stop feeling her. If only he could, somehow, forget. If only the pain eased.

When his curse came, finally, when the clouds of black smoke, which represented the darkness of his mind in such a fitting way, engulfed the world, going through it in terrible, earth-shattering waves, he waited by the grill of his cage, transfixed. He was strangely proud – he was in awe: he never did magic on such a scale, and was amazed he had it in him, amazed to realize that such a force was his. He was empty – he was on the verge of fulfilling his task, on the verge of getting what he has spent hundreds of years planning and for what he has sacrificed everything, and he didn't know what he would do when he finally achieved it. What would he live for? He was afraid – such magic as this had to have a price, and he didn't want to think of just how great it could be. Yet more that anything, he was grateful for the main condition that was set in the structure of the curse – for the loss of memories of all loved ones.

He would wake up in a new world, and forget her. He would forget his guilt, and his hope. And, terrible as it was to lose all memory of her, he was not sure he could endure his present state any longer. He was dying, and not just any sort of death – he was dying of pain; his was the death when heart stops for it is unable to handle the shock of torture. He was dying with each breath, and coming back to life again to die a second later. No man can endure that for long, however great is his love. No man can endure that forever.

If he forgot her, the pain would be gone.

He pressed his face to the rusty rods, and closed his eyes. He felt the cold wind of his own magic blow in his face, stinging his closed eyelids.

He welcomed oblivion.

When he woke up, he knew a lot of things about himself, and was satisfied with most of them. He had a settled life, a respectable trade, and power over people. He could have been happy, or at least content, if not for one thing. He felt he has lost and was missing something – some part of him that was extremely important. He did not know what it was, and it was frustrating in itself, but even more disturbing was the fact that this loss felt like pain – physical pain. It never left, and it never eased. He felt like people who, being seemingly lightly injured in some accident, walk home with but a couple of bruises and die an hour later from internal bleeding. Only he did not die – he bled and bled, inside, feeling the pain gathering in his body and eating it from the inside, poisoning it and taking him over until he felt like pain itself was the main thing about him.

He never bothered to share this depressing feeling with anybody. He had nobody to share it with, anyway. He didn't have any friends, for he was a difficult man to love.


	17. Chapter 17

17

She had quite forgotten the feel of the sun on her face. All the time that she had spent inside – she did not know how long it was, every day seemed the same, yet it seemed endless – what hurt her most was the cold. She was always cold, inside and out. Her cell was chilly, her blanket thin, she shivered all the time and had to sit on her bed crouching, embracing her knees, trying to get warm. And nothing helped: when she sometimes stood on the bed to try and get a glance of the world outside through the narrow window, the day there was always grey. Well, she couldn't see much, anyway, for most of the view consisted of the blank brick wall, but the narrow strip of the sky over it was always, always the same color – dull and dark. The air was cold, too, and humid. It felt like eternal winter. The world seemed just as dark and solitary and… suspended in time as she felt inside. It did not go anywhere, for it did not know where to go; it did not even know where it was to start with. Just like her.

And then, today, things moved, suddenly. The silence broke – she heard people running and calling for something in angry and frightened way. There was some unusual activity behind her locked door, in the world outside. And then a truly amazing thing happened – the door opened, and there was a strange young man, dressed as a doctor, who told her to leave, at once, and sent her to find some other man and give him a message.

And here she was, standing in the middle of the street of some nice small town, dressed in her hospital gown and a coat, which the young man gave her (she suspected it belonged to one of the nurses), and felt the sun on her face. Her lips moved soundlessly as she repeated the message and the name of the man she had to find.

She had no idea where to go.

She supposed she had to ask. There were not many people on the street, but she noticed a nice-looking young woman, with short dark hair covered with smart white woolly hat, and asked her. At the man's name the woman looked at her strangely, with a kind of alarm, but then she shrugged her shoulders and gave her the directions.

She moved down the street in the direction of the port, as indicated by the woman, but then she was lost – the sun and the smell of the fresh wind confused her. She had to ask again, and walked into a café called 'Granny's Diner'. Grumpy-looking elderly lady at the service bar – presumably, Granny herself, – gave a snort when she heard her question and retorted: 'Why would such a nice girl as you want to find that old rascal?' But she gave her the directions anyway, and snorted again at her thanks.

This time, she listened more carefully, and walked with determination, trying not to get distracted with the cheerfulness of the world around. The shop – it appeared the man she sought was a shop-owner – stood on the corner of the street and looked unwelcoming. She wondered if it was closed, and felt a sudden panic. What would she do if the door were locked? Where would she go?

She pushed the door, nevertheless, and to her great relief it opened. The bell over the door tingled sweetly. She stepped in and stopped short, while her eyes adjusted to the dusky interior of the shop. It was filled with all sorts of curious things, which all looked very old. The walls were covered with ornate wallpaper, which was nearly obscured by numerous paintings. The shelves were full of various things from oil-lamps to old clocks and books and what-not. Glass cases were filled with more things, and some things were even hanging from the ceiling – a couple of bicycles, for example. For all its' weirdness, the place felt warm and cozy.

In the far end of the shop, a man was busy with something – he stood with his back to her. She couldn't see him clearly, but he seemed slight – slim and not tall.

She asked uncertainly: 'Excuse me, are you Mr. Gold?'

He started answering her briskly, with a note of irritation in his surprisingly deep voice: 'Yes, but I am afraid the shop is closed…'

He turned to her, and something strange happened to his face. It went blank and very white, as if he was in shock – or as if she frightened him, somehow. His dark eyes stared at her, fixedly, not moving from her face as he started walking towards her, with an outstretched hand, and nearly stumbled. She noticed a cane in his other hand and realized, with a pang of compassion, that he was lame.

She felt stupid delivering her message to such a startled person, but she didn't know what to say otherwise, so she said: 'I was told to find you and to tell you that Regina locked me up'.

She wondered if he heard her – he didn't seem to be listening. He came up close now, and touched her shoulder.

He looked as if he was in great pain as he whispered: 'You are real. You are alive'.

His fingers gripped her shoulder so hard it almost hurt.

She felt moved by the extreme emotion in his voice, but she really couldn't make head or tail out of the whole situation. This man obviously knew her, and didn't expect to see her, and her appearance came as a great shock. She had to have some answers from him.

'I am sorry… Does this mean anything to you?'

He kept looking at her fixedly, as if still surprised that she was talking at all. But apparently he _was _listening to her, for he asked: 'Regina did this to you?'

He was referring to her message, and she nodded, relieved. Then she said, hesitantly: 'I was told you'd protect me'. She didn't know who Regina was and why she had to be protected from her but, judging from the man' frail look and distraught condition, she doubted he could protect anyone from anything.

At her question, his face broke – he seemed on the verge of tears. His lips quivered, and his voice sounded like a sob as he spoke: 'Of course. Of course I will protect you'.

With that, he had drawn her near – embraced her as if she were a long-lost child. The embrace was so strong as to be almost painful, like his grip earlier, and she heard and felt another sob-like sigh as he pressed his face to her hair.

Thoroughly embarrassed, she extricated herself from his hands and looked at him. It was so very strange that he knew her, and felt for her so strongly, yet she had no idea who he was. She looked into his eyes, willing herself to remember, and failing.

'Excuse me, do I know you?' It felt very rude to ask him that in the face of his obvious distress. But he didn't seem to be offended – he looked at her for a second, obviously trying to get a grip of himself, and failing dismally – his shock was too great. He gave a sort of helpless shrug, and tried to smile, and his whole face crumpled in an attempt to constrain some emotion incomprehensible to her as he answered: 'No. But you will'.

And, despite her own stress and the deepest uncertainty of her position, she suddenly felt relieved – calmed down, almost. He looked slight and shell-shocked, this Mr. Gold, but he excluded some… inner strength. She felt safe with him, even given his weird behavior.

Slightly disoriented, it seemed, he started fussing around the shop, picking up this thing and that, explaining hurriedly that he was 'just going out, as he had some very, very important thing to do, and what do we do now, what do we do with you?' She listened and watched for a while, and then she asked: 'Can't I go with you?'

He looked at her, startled: 'Would you?'

She blushed. 'I've got nowhere else to go'.

His lips quivered, again, but this time he managed to control himself, and took her hand.

His touch was warm and not unpleasant, his palm dry and hot, the grip of his long thin fingers strong and determined.

They walked out of the shop, and started into the woodland that stretched behind it.

As they went up the hill the sun continued to shine, and she, unused to so much activity, began to feel uncomfortable in her warm coat. Despite his limp, Mr. Gold walked very briskly, with surprising agility. The road was difficult: the forest was thick, the path stony and the roots gnarled. It was while they were negotiating some tricky part of the way, getting around the fallen tree, that he let go of her hand for a moment (he could not make this difficult move with his cane and her hand in his), and she fell slightly behind.

It was then that she felt it – the sudden and sharp shock, as some invisible wave hit her, stunning her for a moment, and immediately brining her life into focus.

In a split second it all came back to her. She saw herself as a little girl, running up narrow stone staircase, holding up the hem of her long dress, pressing a book under her armpit, hurrying to get into her room in the tower. She saw her father's dogs, jumping around the huge fireplace in the great room of the castle, sniffing the air excitedly before the hunt. She saw her father's face, and his stocky figure dressed in a royal mantle. She saw faces of knights and serfs, bowing in front of her as she walked towards the throne.

She saw Him, strolling around the hall with a sneering face. She saw his eyes, inhuman but tender, as he looked at her when she said 'forever' and the world trembled. She saw his hands, green and clawed, spinning the wheel, and remembered how they shook at her touch. She saw the golden glint of his naked back in the winter sunlight. She saw the arrow piercing his chest, and felt her heart constrict with pain. She saw his face, overcome with longing, as he looked at her. She saw his face contorted with pain and fury as he pushed her away. She remembered how she used to dream of sitting at his feet and feeling his hand stroking her hair. She felt his kiss, so brief and yet so shuttering. She heard his howling, and his cold dismissal, and his laugh – his quiet laugh as he sat spinning and thinking. She loved it so, this laugh.

She loved _him_ so.

She watched his back as he walked just ahead of her in the forest, and felt that something in her, some missing part of her slowly but surely settled into place. The world around her seemed different, she was different, He was different, and her visions might have seemed completely insane. Yet, for the first time since God knows when, she was certain she was _not_ insane. There was light where there used to be darkness, there was certainty where there used to be confusion, and He was where there used to be solitude. She knew who she was, for she found him. How could she doubt that she knew him? He _was_ the only thing she knew.

'Wait!'

'No, no, we are very close…' He answered her without turning with that deep, sad voice he had now, the voice she didn't know yet, or not too well. He was in a hurry to complete his mysterious errand. But she could not wait – she had to make sure that what she felt was real.

She called his name uncertainly, still not fully believing it really was him and saw him freeze. He stood there among the trees with his head half-turned to her, and waited for her to continue. She saw his profile, so different yet so like the one she remembered, and felt his tension, and sudden sadness that overcame his entire body. He was apprehensive, it seemed.

She remembered how they parted. She remembered how he told her he did not love her – how he told her that his magic meant more to him than she did. Yet she also remembered his face just minutes ago, in his shop. That was not a face of a man who did not love her.

She remembered his fury as he shouted that she cannot love him – his scream felt like a curse. Yet she also felt her heart opening up to him, reaching out to him, right now, and her whole body coming to life just because he was near.

He could scream and shout all he wanted – it did not matter. She knew what she knew.

She loved him, and she told him so.

His face looked so strange when he turned to her. Searching this unfamiliar face she suddenly realized how handsome he was now, with his dark eyes and thin nose and sensitive mouth and lanky straight hair with such a lot of grey in it. He looked… old and she wondered just how much younger then he she was. Again, as in the shop, she felt she was more like a lost child to him then a lover. He looked sad, and tired, and there was pain in his eyes – he looked _defeated_, as if he had lost a very, very long fight and was preparing to accept the inevitable. She wondered, with sinking heart, if he would ever let her come to him.

And then he opened his arms to her and, as she put her head on his shoulder, whispered into her hair: 'Yes. And I love you too'.

There was such sadness in his words, which were all-important as in fact they have cancelled all his protestations of old. He voiced his feeling, and he said 'yes' to her declaration – he consented to believe her. It should have made her ecstatic, if only he weren't so sad – not just in his tone or looks, he was sad somewhere inside. She wondered if it were so because he was changed, if perhaps the difference between the man she knew and the man she saw now run deeper than his looks. She felt for him so – she had such a strong urge to wrap herself around him, protectively; to help him, somehow, to bring back the teasing, exotic and undefeatable creature he was when she knew him. But there would be time for that, she felt. For the moment, it was enough just to be able to touch him and to know, with clear certainty of a loving heart and a body that feels at home in an embrace, that it was _him_, her master and her lover.

It was him, however he looked.

Unable to judge or comprehend what he was doing, she watched him drop his potion into the magic well, and felt a subtle change in him as his powers came back. At once he became more alert, more decisive, more animated than before. She looked at his hardened face, she answered his angered questions about her fate, and she tried to compare what she saw with what she remembered from the distant past. He did not look oppressed with darkness, as she felt him to be then. He was… at peace with himself, confident – as if he mastered something in himself. His power must have mattered much for him if he wanted it back, and somehow it did not feel like a terrible curse now. He did not seem to be afraid of her touch, not anymore. And though she did not feel the absolute power to reach him that used to be hers – _that_ still eluded her, but that was not because he shut her out.

She saw him much more clearly now. Did he change, or was she older and wiser?

What she did not want to see was a horrible coldness that entered his eyes, normally so warm and soft now, as he spoke of revenge. She did not want him cold and distanced, for any reason. She wanted him to be with her, and not distracted with anything else. Yes, it may have been very selfish of her, but didn't she deserve it? Being near him, she felt like she came back from the dead. She wanted to hold on to that feeling – she wanted to hold on to him.

He must have missed her, too. She wondered, briefly, why he was so surprised that she was alive, back there in the shop. Did he believe otherwise?

No, he did not shut her out – his haunted eyes, his trembling hand as he touched her cheek told her that he would never, never send her away now. And, as he promised her that he would not do anything rush, as she felt his fingers on her skin, as he looked into her eyes and called her 'sweetheart', almost breaking her heart with sweetness of his husky whisper, she felt something new awakening between them. She remembered how she thought, all that time ago, how he would be impossible to touch – remembered thinking how alien he was to her in his heraldic reptilian magnificence. He was not alien any more. Some barrier was gone. When she leaned in to him, asking for a kiss, she saw a flicker of apprehension in his eyes – they both couldn't help remembering how their first kiss ended. But right now she did not feel the slightest wish to turn him into anything else by magic kisses. She wanted to know him, as he was. She always wanted that.

She asked him, back then, if she could know him. He answered her, right now, that she _will_ know him. When people say these words, they don't always mean learning somebody's mind and habits. A man and a woman know each other in another, much deeper and simpler way.

As they kissed, finally, she felt it – the warmth and the gentle pull of his lips on hers, insistent, physical, and real. It was such a joy to touch him – to feel his fingers in her hair, to hear his breathing quickening, to feel how his body gets tense and his skin gets _hotter_ where they touch. It was such a joy to feel the crushing force of his embrace, to feel that having her near means so much to him. She knew he'd never let her go, and she was finally safe – she was at home in his arms. She was where she was meant to be, and it did not matter if she was drawn there by magic or by force of nature.

She never imagined that being physically near him would mean so much to her. When she kissed him, back in his castle, the force of magic was so great that the kiss didn't really feel like a kiss – it was a ritual, not a union. Yet now she was feeling his tongue on the inside of her lips, his stubble scratching her skin, ever so slightly, and she heard his catching breath. And _that_ was magic.


	18. Chapter 18

18

Would fate ever stop torturing him with hope? Would it ever tire of laughing him in the face, mocking his plans, his determination, his regrets and even his very repentance?

He used to be a man at peace with himself. Unhappy man, yes, and lonely. A man filled with pain and haunted by guilt, yes. A man driven to despair by his slow and inevitable descent into madness – that was how he felt while he lived under the curse, unable to remember his true self, yet constantly haunted by repressed memories, which with time became more real to him than the life he lived in the illusory town created by his will and brought to reality by his pupil's hate. A man determined to succeed in his mission, despite all personal losses, which made his task harder and sadder, yet could not devalue it or stop it from being carried through for, if he stopped, that would mean all the losses were pointless – that's how he felt when he finally remembered who he was. The pain of remembering was cosmic, but he was almost relieved to feel it – the years of uncertainty exhausted him so that he welcomed pain as if it were an old friend. The pain was durable as long as he knew himself and was able to go on with his mission. This pain was the price he paid for getting as close to completing his lifework as he did. He would never get rid of the pain, he knew that, and he did not mind: his pain was a proof that he was alive, and had a heart to feel it. He came to terms with it. He came to terms with himself; his loneliness and his guilt were part of being him, his isolation was part of his darkness. He was _reconciled_ with himself and his place in the world.

His ever-mocking destiny could not stand it, of course. It had to come and crush him. It had to shatter his life, monastic and purpose-driven, with giving him back what he had thought lost forever. It had to distract him with a dream of happiness. It had to blind him with hope. It had to ruin his self-control, and show him that deep inside he was exactly the man he always was – so pitifully hungry for love that a hint of it would turn him into a weeping child.

He was just a step away from achieving his goal. He _paid_ for being that close to it. And then She walked into his shop, and he was back to square one, firmly stuck in the same impasse as he was years ago in the magic land. He knew he could not have her, for coldness and determination needed to complete his task were incompatible with love: that did not change, though everything around did. He wanted to have her, achingly, because she brought him light and hope, and part of him wanted to believe that light and hope would bring him closer to success. That did not change either.

There was nothing in the world he wanted more than her. He wanted her much more than he wanted to find his son; wanting her was real, and finding him has become an almost abstract idea – _that_ was a very hard thing to acknowledge to himself. But he did acknowledge it, and repented it, and even because of that he saw no way among the uncountable paths of the universe that he could _let_ himself have her.

But all that was philosophy and that came later. The moment he saw her, the moment he turned around to get rid of an unwelcome visitor and saw _her_, standing there alive and breathing, so broken and small in her shabby hospital gown, so lost, so helpless, so his… He was stunned – blown over – completely, utterly destroyed. A hurricane of emotions took him over – if his magic were with him then, he would have probably blasted his surroundings away with the sheer force of his feelings. He could not believe she was there, for it was beyond belief. He was terrified, for it was incomprehensible. He was overwhelmed, for it was a miracle. He was not glad, for he could not be glad when his heart ached for her. He did not know what she has been through, but one glance told him she suffered, and her sufferings left their mark; her inner glow seemed to be… dimmer somehow, as if obscured by pain.

He must have frightened her with the intensity of his reaction; he certainly embarrassed her. She did not know him, and the shivering emotional mess he appeared to be must have been repulsive; even kindest of people always react with mild distaste to emotional displays in which they have no part. As he embraced her, and felt her stiffen in his arms, he thought, briefly, that their roles were reversed now: he loved her with all the intensity his heart possessed, and she was shut out from him, unreachable and distant. And oh, how he loved her – the moment he touched her, the moment his face was buried in her hair and he felt her scent, the moment her breath warmed his skin his love rushed back to him, blotting out his shock and his apprehension, bringing him back to life, swelling his heart with pain and longing such as he never knew. They were even stronger now than back then when he first knew her, for they were deepened by the loss, and highlighted by the miracle of having her back. He thought he'd never feel these things – he thought he had no right to them. And now he was granted the right, and felt them.

He has lost her, he died with her, and now she was back with him.

He wondered how he survived the moment.

She was so lost and helpless now, so dependent on him he did not know what to do. In the years of his mourning for her he came to think of her as of a source of light, he regarded her as some beacon of hope with an unerring instinct for good and right. When he dreamed of her, he trusted her to give him a sense of direction. Yet now she trusted him, and he was supposed to show the way. He was not fit for this task.

He felt frightened he'd let her down.

They say that fear is the door through which darkness enters our hearts. It is true. For fear of failing her, he felt the need to find strength. To find the strength, he had to get his magic back. He never stopped to think that magic was what stood between them before. He needed to feel confident, and there was only one way to find confidence.

As they walked through the woods, he felt guilty – she was obviously tired of walking, confused and unhappy, what was he thinking of, taking her with him? Yet, how could he have left her behind, and go away risking he'd come back to the empty shop – to the realization that her return was an illusion born in his grief-ridden mind, which finally collapsed under strain? He had to have her near him. He had to feel her hand in his, to make sure she was real.

And yet he let her fall slightly behind as he walked on impatiently, waiting for things to happen – for the curse to break. He knew he'd feel it – it was his curse, for goodness sake. He'd never thought he'd be too distracted to notice the magic twist, and that the news would come to him with her voice, calling him by his real name, and telling him she loved him.

She told him that because she knew it about herself. He did not feel her love – not like he used to, when it came flooding, threatening to destroy him with its force.

May be it was because there was no magic in this land. May be it was because she was not completely herself, yet. May be it was because he was, after all, cursed.

May be it was a good thing that her love didn't come as a destructive invasive force. It just glowed, warmly, and felt as hot breath on a frozen palm in winter.

He was standing there in the woods, looking into her beautiful eyes, which were searching his face, waiting for his reaction, fearful of his wrath. He remembered their parting. He felt his guilt and his helplessness. That was when the thought that her return did not really change anything or brought them any hope hit him. And he knew, at once, that he must redeem himself in her eyes – exactly because their situation was hopeless he had to do it. He had to tell her that she was right, that he was the one who shied away from the truth, just as she told him then. They loved each other, and it _mattered_ – he had to acknowledge that. He owed it to her, and to himself.

He told her he loved her, and his reward was great. She came into his arms, and the complete ease of her action, the unconditional trust in him it shoved, felt like a physical power. It _warmed_ him, if even just for a second, and then he realized just how cold his life has been all that time. Yet she was able to help him thus because he was strong enough to encourage her. He needed more strength. He needed his magic and, when it was back, he was amazed how easy – how natural – how normal it felt, to have it with him again. He never realized, till he came to this land, just how much his magic was part of him. He always thought it was brought on by the curse. Now he wondered if perhaps it was always in him, somewhere, and was just awakened by his fury, and his grief, and the murder he committed with the magical dagger.

Yet, with the return of magic, darkness in him stirred disturbingly. He could not just stand there, in the light of his personal miracle of love lost and found. He was compelled to let the shadows in. He needed to know what caused him grief. Learning the circumstances of her plight, he placed the guilt immediately on himself. Regina would have never known about her if he were not careless – she would never do anything if she didn't want to weaken him. _He_ was to blame; he knew it just as surely as when he was hitting her father, punishing him for her death while the blame rested entirely on _his_ shoulders. He was the one who had her love, but shut her out – her fate was his fault. Yet he had to punish her father, for he could find no punishment great enough for himself – a thousand deaths would not do. And now he had to punish someone else, again, for it was impossible to be near her while this dark anger lived in him.

And he wanted to have her near him – he wanted it more then ever before in his life, for he felt today that something changed between them. There was always, even when he loved and desired her with passion that drove him insane, even when she loved him with force great enough to break through his curse, some alienation between them. If he had stopped to think clearly, while he was dreaming of her in his chamber, he would have realized that they were hardly compatible – they were from different species. She must have felt it, too – that was why she called him ugly; she just expressed herself rather tactlessly, but essentially she was right: he was very _different_ from her. It was difficult, nearly impossible to picture his gold-crusted lips really touching hers.

This alienation was gone now. He thought of that as his human hand touched her human cheek now. It looked natural. It felt easy. It was magical in its own way that he could kiss her now without magical changes coming over them. He could just kiss her, deeply, as he always wanted, and feel her softness in his arms, and be close to her.

'We can be together', she said. And she was right. It was _possible_.

As he kissed her gently parted lips, for the first time in his life he gloried in his human self. He finally felt it – the softness and wetness of her youthful mouth, fresh and light, yet hinting at the darker softness and wetness that he could also discover now. He had thought of it so often, imagined it so often, was aroused and ashamed by it so often – and now he was doing it, he was kissing her, and she _wanted _him to kiss her. Clumsily, but eagerly she opened her lips wider, and desire seared through him like pain, fraying his nerves, alerting him to everything in her; she was overwhelmingly real, and he thought of how long he waited for her, and instinctively deepened the kiss, touching her tongue with his, feeling his muscles tightening. She drew away from him then, shyly – he must have been too intense, he frightened her, and she was so fragile yet.

Her head came to rest on his shoulder, and he embraced her almost convulsively, wishing to feel her body against his, but also wishing to shelter her from the world. True love or not, magical force or just a force of nature, she was with him, they were together, and he would never, never let anything tear her from his embrace. He would never lose her again. He would find a way to do what he needs to do, and keep her.

To make sure of that, he had to defeat his enemies. And he had to punish the woman who made her suffer.

The man in him argued that they needed protection. The beast in him growled in anticipation of fun.

He took her home. For all her enthusiasm for kissing, for all the happy glow of her radiant face, it was obvious that she was deadly tired. She has been through a lot today – she escaped from her prison, she walked the woods with him, she discovered her true self, and they survived a kiss they both, in their hearts, not only wanted but also feared. She needed to rest.

He left her in the backroom of his shop, sleeping on his camp-bed, dressed in a pretty dress he charmed for her and covered with his tartan blanket, her shoes kicked off and laying on the floor. She looked relaxed and innocent as a child. He watched her for a while, wondering at the sight of her lovely, bright, _living_ face on his pillow, asking himself if, dark and damaged and flawed as he was, he even had a right to touch her – to bind her to him. Yet it was done, already, he reminded himself – he should have thought of that before he asked her to promise him his 'forever', and got her promise.

He hated to get away from her – he would have preferred to sit by her side, guarding her dreams, making sure nothing unpleasant touched her. But he had things to do. Unpleasant ones.

He sealed the shop with the strongest protection spell he could summon, and went away to summon Regina's wraith.


	19. Chapter 19

19

He should have been exultant with the things he did that day. His plan worked to perfection, the curse was broken, his magic was back, he had the satisfaction of using his darkest powers to summon a terrible force and attack his enemy. But everything has been upset – set off – by the unplanned, unexpected, and incomprehensible miracle of Belle's return. Her appearance eclipsed everything else; it was so much bigger than everything else that it kind of stood between him and his actions. Magic was back only to stand between them. Revenge upon Regina had an aftertaste of a broken promise, and he kept imagining disappointment in Belle's eyes when she'd learn the truth. She always wanted him to be a good man – she believed him to be a good man. And, however naïve her wish was, he felt nice trying to please her. He told himself that technically he did not break his promise: he wasn't killing the Queen with his own hands, and actually he wasn't killing her at all – just trapping her soul in a supernatural prison. But somehow he was sure Belle wouldn't be impressed by nuances. She'd feel compassionate towards her tormentor – that was part of her sweet nature, her unbreakable goodness. But that would be just a part of her distress. The main thing would be her disappointment in him – her sadness at his lie, her sadness at his fall. God knows what she saw in him back then, when she tried to break his curse and find the man he once were – a man she would but pity, if she'd notice him at all; God knows what she saw in him now, when he was so drastically changed outwardly.

He did not doubt his actions even for a second – he did what was necessary to do and was sure of that. He just didn't want to look bad in her eyes. He wanted her to _like_ him, not just to be magically in love him.

There was another thing that spoiled the day for him. He was distracted. He couldn't really concentrate on any of his actions for he was constantly thinking of her; did she wake up, what was she doing, what was she thinking, was she all right? He wanted to get rid of his immediate tasks and get back to her as soon as possible. He wanted to _be_ with her. He hoped she wasn't up yet. He wanted her to see him when she opened her eyes. What would she see in his face? What will she say? Will she still believe she loves him? Would she kiss him? He wanted her to. He wanted to get back to that moment in the forest, magical in its simplicity, when they just kissed each other, starting to get to know each other as human beings.

When he came back to the shop, she was still asleep, but showing signs that she'd wake up soon: her head moved across the pillow, she'd thrown off her blanket, as if she was hot. He became exceedingly nervous – the anticipation was too much to handle, and he decided to occupy his hands with something; he often did that, applied himself to some simple manual task, like cleaning objects from the shop, when his nerves got the better of him. This time, he decided to brew tea. She would be thirsty after sleep – surely she'd welcome a cup of tea.

He was just heating the pot with boiling water when they came – the good ones, the loving couple he united and that daughter of theirs; such a promising girl, alight with magic, it was amazing that a person could be so gifted and yet wouldn't feel her gift at all. They came to accuse him of something, as usual; it was so predictable he didn't even get hurt. He brushed them off. He had no time for them. _She_ was in the next room – there was nothing that could hurt him or seriously occupy him compared to that. Yet, when they left, he still felt unsettled – he must have been upset. Otherwise, he couldn't have been so startled when she came out and confronted him with his broken promise. He'd have found the words to explain himself properly.

And he definitely wouldn't snap at her when she voiced her disappointment. 'I thought you'd changed', she said, sadly. And he retorted with an ironic 'What, in an hour that you've known me?' His question was entirely justified – she did not know him any better now than she did back then, and her only reason to believe he'd changed was his appearance. He might have been actually insulted by her attitude, which hinted that all their problems consisted in his looks and, as long as he did not manifest evil by being green, it was fine with her. Some true love was that, if she didn't look deeper than his skin. He might have also been irritated by the quickness of her judgment – if anyone was fast at jumping to conclusions that was she. Yes, he might have had the right to be offended and irritated. But he had no right to snap at her. Not after what happened to them in the past. Not after what she'd been through. No quips would serve them now; and anyway, the words that might have sounded lighter – ironic and teasing – spoken by his prattling green alter ego somehow didn't come out right now. It was no tease and no leading question. It sounded as downright insult.

She was out of door the moment he spoke and, though he did shout his apology to her retreating back, he did not sound convincing, for he was still angry himself. How could she be so childish? It was amazing – they were hardly back together, they were actually never together before, yet they already bickered like an old married couple. It showed a pattern, and a very sad one. It did not matter that she didn't have the time to know him; she wanted him to be the man he wasn't – she saw somebody else in him, or imagined it. She loved him, but she loved him with an 'if'. God knows he was not in the position to expect unconditional love; he was in no position to expect any sort of love. It was just so completely wrong for her to be with him. He simply could not be the man she wanted – he could not change so much without losing himself. So there was no point in them being together. They would just torment each other, and she'd waste her life on him. And he could not bear a thought of her wasting her life. She was too precious for that.

All that was hopeless. He'd have to let her go, as he let her go all these years ago. That is, if she came back to be released. She didn't look like she'd return. She changed a lot since he ordered her around the castle.

He pictured her, in his mind, as she stood before him when he was sending her away with all the cruelty he could master. He saw her determined face, all collected not to show how much she was hurting, as she delivered her parting shot, putting a spell on him, condemning him to eternal regret and emptiness without her. If only she knew just how effective her words were – how strongly they have contributed to keeping of the bond between them, the bond he tried to break so many times. He did want to break it, so that she'd be free of him, and his pain would stop. Yet it didn't seem to be breakable. He felt it still, even in this land without magic. He felt it now, tugging at his heart, like a physical thing.

With a heavy heart, he looked around the shop. Things he took from the shelf as he started preparing tea still stood on the counter. Her chipped cup was amongst them. The cup he nearly killed her father over… What would she say when she learned of _that_? It appeared that the disgusting fool was completely innocent, after all. He did her no harm.

He himself was the only man that did her harm, ever.

He picked the cup and, fingering it absentmindedly as if trying to find some comfort in the touch, went to his spinning wheel. He had things to do, magic to make, and he had things to forget. He wished the spinning did that, as he told her once. As it were, spinning only helped him to remember.

He sat there working yet part of him, the part that was always alert to magic happening around, sensed what was going on in town. He felt the wraith finding Regina, he felt it crushing things around it, he felt the struggle around the magic hat, the surge of light magic – must be Emma's, and the closing of the portal. He saw the scene as clearly as if he were there in the room; the magical signatures of events were clear to him. Things didn't go as he planned them. There was trouble ahead. It would have to be dealt with. But he couldn't be bothered with these things now – if he was needed, people would come to him. They always did come, however much they despised and hated him. And that was the only way in which he could relate to people: by despondency and fear and despair. Never, never by love.

And then he sensed it – the stirring in the air, the quickening of time as something powerful and bright approached the shop. She was coming back.

Was he cursed to be forever that much alert to her closeness?

She came back and stood by the door awkwardly.

He looked up from the wheel, trying to appear nonchalant, and succeeding much better than back then, in his castle, when she also came back and saw him spinning, and attacked him with her newborn love. He had to gather himself together and say what he needed to as calmly as possible. He had to send her away, again, but there must be no drama. Too many curses bound and separated them already. No more magic.

'I thought you didn't want to see me again?' Yes, that sounded good – calm. No silent screaming of his 'why did you come back' of old. Thought he _did _wonder why she came back, now as much as then.

'I didn't. But I was… worried'. She spoke with some hesitation. Did she also realize how much the scene mirrored, in an understated, human way, the one that happened before?

Ah, how clearly he remembered her face, then, mellow and shining, as she said: 'I wasn't going to. But then something changed my mind'. That was just before she kissed him, and their world came apart.

He told her there was nothing to worry about, which was not entirely true, but details did not concern her.

They seemed to have run out of topics for conversation.

And then she noticed the chipped cup standing beside him on a small table. Her face lit up with tenderness: 'Oh, you still have it – my chipped cup!'

She moved closer, picking it up. He stood up, looking at her with sadness. He wanted to tell her how many times this small cup drove him mad and saved him. How many times, back in the old times, he cried over it. How many times, while living under the curse, he'd touch it and feel a sudden rush of something, which felt like a memory of her, and how it tortured and consoled him. He wanted to tell her how, on the night he remembered himself, he came home, hardly feeling his legs, and went straight through to the cupboard where he kept the cup, and took it into his hands, and relived their love, and how he wept, and how he took the little piece of china to bed with him; clutching it to his heart, he felt she was with him. He wanted to tell her how he nearly killed her father about this cup. He wanted to tell her that it stood by his wheel now because he wanted to pretend that she was sitting by his side as he worked, as she used to sit so many years ago, in a different world. But if he told her all that, they would start thinking of love again. And that would make letting her go that much harder.

So instead of all that, he took the cup from her hands, and said: 'There are many, many things in this shop. But this… This is the only thing I truly cherish'. She looked at him with such devotion and such compassion that his heart was ready to break. That look alone told him he must set her free. His life was not a place for her. He gathered his strength and said evenly: 'And now, you must leave'.

'What?' A shock registered on her face – it was surprise, but not pain; and he felt relieved. Perhaps she would not think of other times when he rejected her. Perhaps she doesn't need him as much as he needs her. Perhaps his curse works, and she doesn't really love him. Oh, let it be so – she wouldn't suffer if it were so.

'You must leave because, despite what you hope, I am still a monster'. That was as close as he could come to telling her he cannot truly change, ever.

She gave him the brightest of smiles, though her eyes brimmed with tears – she looked… relieved, too, as if she feared something worse, but was happy to hear that he was only talking of some minor misunderstanding. She put her hands on his shoulders – would similarities between their meetings ever seize? – and spoke, still smiling, still nearly crying: 'Don't you see? This is exactly the reason I have to stay'.

He drew away, alarmed and disappointed. Why was she so stubborn? 'Why? To free me? To save me? To kill the beast?'

His voice sounded harsh, but she paid him no heed. 'No'. She hesitated, looking into his guarded eyes, searching for a measure of encouragement and finding none. Despite his apparent coldness, she gathered her courage, and blushed, and blurted out: 'I have to stay because you are still the man I fell in love with'.

He went pale. 'I don't understand'.

She shook her head, but then looked into his eyes again. 'I didn't understand, too. And you don't understand. I did want to help, and did want to free the person I see in you, but not for myself. Not really. I wanted to do it for you. You were in pain – oh, Rumplestiltskin, do you know how much _pain_ there is in you, and how one feels it? From right here', she put one hand on his chest, right over the heart, and another over her own heart, 'from right here, it goes right _here_. I thought that if things changed, you'd feel better. But then I thought – may be there is no need to change things. May be I can just make you feel better, by being there. I was on my way to find out when I was… stopped. Well, things are changed now, but you are still in pain. It feels like you are in greater pain than before – you are so much sadder now. And that means you are still the man I love, and I want to make you feel better. Don't tell me that I don't have the power to do it. Don't you dare'.

A rush of emotions came over him. Regret – pointless regret that things couldn't have been clearer and simpler between them, back then and now. Humility – he was such a worthless man, compared to her. Gratitude – for being forgiven and accepted. Fear, for he was faced with a great force. Hope – blinding hope that things might, just might work out for them. And then there was a physical thing – a feeling of her warm small palm on his chest, pressing against the fabric of his shirt and going right trough it to his skin, binding them together in some very basic and simple way. And, all these things combined, it was love – love that he felt taking him over, and making his heart lighter, and somehow it didn't frighten him anymore.

His mouth went slack, for he suddenly found himself on the verge of tears. He knew he must answer her, but he could not speak – he had no voice and no words. He just reached out to her, and pressed her to his chest, burying his face in her hair. Her cup was still in his hand – he held it behind her back.

He didn't close his eyes. He wanted to be certain that he was here, in his shop, with her, and that what was happening was real, and not just one of his lonely dreams.

It seemed that his embrace was a good enough answer, for he felt her sigh happily against his neck. He felt her breath on his skin, and he felt her body, all the gentle curves of it, pressed to his, and something quite apart from hopes and words and revelations woke in him. Her hands were crossed behind his back, her palms resting on the small of his back, warm. Her lips were touching his shirt-collar, an inch away from his bare skin. The fabric of her dress was thin, and he felt her nipples hardening as her breasts brushed his chest. Her skirt was short, and the stockinged skin of her thigh burned his trouser-leg, unbearably close to his groin.

His whole body tensed, hardening, just as it always did when he thought of her in the past – just as it did when she fell into his arms from the ladder. He remembered his mad longing, and felt it again. He remembered his shame, but that didn't surface now. Things were different now. They were not happening just to him, he wasn't imagining them. She was not a fantasy, she was not a memory. She was real, and in his embrace. She was here, with him, she told him she loved him, and he knew he loved her. And where there's love, there is no shame, and no holding back.

He drew away from her, for a second, and she gave him a startled look. He shook his head, indicating her cup, which he placed gently on the table: 'We don't want to break it accidentally, do we? It has been through a lot'.

Just as you were, he thought with terrible and deep sadness. She was a damaged and fragile little thing, and she was his. He will not let her fall and break again. He would never let her out of his grasp again.

With his hands free, he cupped her face, his fingers brushing her cheeks, tracing her ears, coming down to her slender neck. He looked at her face as if drinking it in – absorbing it. She looked up at him with something akin awe – her magical eyes widened, her lips were parted, and they glistened in the dusk of the room, and she seemed to be holding her breath.

'I always wondered…' she started, and then bit her lip shyly.

'What?' He answered in a whisper, careful not to shatter the moment.

She smiled, not taking her gaze off his face: 'I always wondered what color your eyes were'.

And then it crushed him – the enormousness of their miracle, the overpowering force of their bond, the stunning unreal reality of them being together. She looked into his monster's face, back then, and was thinking of the color of his eyes. She wanted to touch him – to reach him. All the time when he was driving himself crazy over her and condemning himself for daring to do it, she _was _thinking of him – she did want him. Oh what a fool he was to let it go. To think of the time wasted. To think of his longing, and hers.

He lowered his head and kissed her on the lips. He had kissed her already, but this time it was different – there was no apprehension, no fear now. He traced the outline of her mouth with his tongue, he pushed it gently between her lips to open them wider, and then he licked her teeth, as they parted, and then he found her tongue, and sucked on it, gently. She gasped. He let her go, for an instant, for he wanted to lick her lips now and to suck them – the top one first, the lower one second, and then he went inside her mouth again.

Her fingers clutched his shoulders – she needed to support herself. He looked into her face, briefly. She was flushed, her eyes half-closed, her breathing shallow. She was melting in his arms, as he imagined and dreamed she would.

'No magic today?' he whispered into her lips.

'This is magic', she said, her voice hardly audible.

He kissed her again, and let his hand slip from her neck down to her breast, tracing the peaking nipple with his knuckles through the silk of her dress. She uttered a soft moan, like a kitten, and her hands released his shoulders as she started tucking at his tie. She loosened the knot, and her trembling fingers unbuttoned his shirt, and then her hot soft hands touched his chest, and it was his turn to moan.

If ever she doubted her power over him, she could not doubt it now. He felt like clay in her hands as she touched his ribs and his stomach, and then as her hands slid behind his back and traced his spine. His head was thrown back, his eyes closed; she pressed herself even closer, nuzzling her face against his neck, and kissed his jaw, and then he felt her tongue licking his chin.

He hissed, and clutched her buttocks, pressing her to his groin. Then he started to tear at the fabric of her dress, wishing, briefly, that he had his claws still – then he could have cut the dress neatly, and have her naked. But no, his claws wouldn't do to touch her skin – the softest, warmest, gentlest thing he touched in his life.

He had lost count of the times when he imagined her in his arms. He loved her, yes, but he also wanted her – yearned. Yet even the wildest of his dreams could not match the overwhelming reality of being with her. Nothing he did shocked or surprised her – whatever he did, she returned, as if taking a hint. As her dress fell on the floor, she looked at him intently, her eyes misty, her lips swollen, and reached to unbutton his trousers. He caught her hand, stopping it for a second – he had to get rid of his shoes first. He kicked them off, and swayed momentarily – he forgot about his bad leg; it was amazing just how… undamaged he felt with her. He leaned against the table, taking his socks off, than stood in front of her. She still had her underwear on, and her stockings. Her shoes were off. Her hair was wild. His shirt was open, his loose tie still on his neck, his feet bare.

They were still standing by the wheel were they kissed.

The scene was wild, hot, intense, and embarrassing. They could not go on like this – in the shop, among this junk, in such unfitting conditions.

Or could they?

The momentary pause didn't seem to bring either of them to their senses. She still faced him bravely. He breathed ruggedly, trying to take in what he saw.

The most beautiful woman in the world – that's who she was to him. His woman.

He offered her his outstretched hand. 'Come'.

She nodded.

He limped heavily as they moved towards the bed where she slept today – he had no idea where his cane was. She didn't seem to mind that he was crippled – she seemed ready to accept anything about him. And it really, really went into his head.

He sat on the bed, drawing her closer to him, pressing his face to her abdomen. She shivered, but not from revulsion. His hands slid down her legs, taking her stockings off, brushing her skin. Her breathing quickened. Her hands were on his shoulders again, taking off his shirt. I must look miserable to her, he thought – not green and beastly now, yet still old and bony and worn, while she is so, so beautiful. But she didn't seem to mind – she lowered her head, and kissed his shoulder. He caught her breast with his left hand, and his mouth found her nipple, while his right hand touched her between the legs.

She was wet for him, and he completely lost his head. In a matter of seconds she was beneath him on the bed. Her underwear was gone, as were his clothes. Kneeling in front of her, he spread her legs apart, and then he froze, looking into her startled face.

What was he doing? What was he thinking? Was he, indeed, a beast? Was this tangle on the camp-bed in the back room of the shop a fitting way to meet the expectations of a life-time?

He hovered over her, slowly coming to his senses, seeing himself as if from a distance, descending into shame and self-loathing.

She looked at him with wide eyes, unable to understand the change in him.

He looked at her, spread on his narrow bed, naked, white-skinned, glowing; her breasts heaving, her nipples small, her pubic hair dark, her skin damp, her scent intoxicating, so beautiful he felt like crying. She looked so pure. So untouchable.

And then she reached towards him and took his erection into her hand, placing her other hand over his heart.

'Let me love you', she said, trying to catch his eye.

His heart stopped, and a great shudder came over his body. The pain that he believed to be a part of him seeped out, leaving him weightless.

'Yes', he breathed out. 'Yes, Belle, yes'.

Gently, very gently he touched her between the legs again, his fingers tangling in the short hair, reaching the hot, slightly rubbery flesh, seeking the narrow opening, hearing her gasp, and stifling it with a kiss. She opened up to him, and relaxed, as his fingers kneaded her, and then she moaned. She was moaning for him, softly, and he knew he would never be able to stop now, and he would never be able to live without hearing this moan over and over again.

He removed his hand, and placed his erection in its stead. He pushed in, quickly, not really able control himself any longer. She never tensed, not even for an instant.

And then he seized to be, for he was turned into her – taken inside her and lost there. He had no soul, and no being apart from her. He was her – her darkness and her wetness, the ripples and the tightening of her insides. He was her eyes, opened in wonder. He was her voice, calling him. He was her sigh, and her soft outcry.

He was her light. For a moment, for one blinding moment inside her, taking her in and giving himself away, he felt no darkness in him, none at all.

When things around them returned to the semblance of reality, he realized he was still on top of her, still inside her – they were tangled so tightly the narrow bed didn't feel narrow at all. He was embracing her, feeling her breasts against his chest. Her hands were wrapped around him, her feet resting on his back. He raised his head to look at her face.

She looked solemn and calm. With one hand she reached to touch his face, placing her palm against his cheek – his skin tensed under her touch.

'You are beautiful', she said.

That was when he cried.


	20. Chapter 20

20

Some days she felt like she was battering her head against the brick wall. Some nights she felt she was blessed. Everything in her life – everything about Him – was extreme. There was either despair or ecstasy, and nothing in between. Nothing normal. The man she knew during the day baffled and frustrated her – he was remote, incommunicative, closed like an oyster; if she asked him something, he brushed her away or joked, trying to sound lighthearted. He never really opened to her, never explained her things and she felt that her ultimate wish – to know him – kept eluding her. During the day he behaved as if admitting his devotion to her was a sign of weakness. If anyone saw them together, they would not believe that these two people shared a bed – that passion bound them with quite frightening force. They were almost awkward around each other. He was ceremonious and distant with her when they were dressed; his clothes were like armor against her and his own feelings towards her. She understood that: her lover was fiercely proud, and could not admit how much he depended on her. Yet she was hurt, for she felt she deserved such an admission. She knew how much she means to him, for the man she knew at night was completely opposed to his buttoned-up day version. He was revealed to her to the extreme; he was not simply naked, it seemed that he had no skin and she could touch his raw flesh any moment, and to hurt him terribly as well as give him unrivalled pleasure. No barriers stood between them then – she could ask for anything and have her wish granted instantly. Yet it was no use – at night, all she could think of asking was _him_: his touch, his kiss, his voice whispering her name. And that he gave her without asking.

She knew him inside out, knew every inch of his body and felt his every mood, and yet she did not know him at all. It was so frustrating. She felt like a girl in some old tale that was abducted by a monster and married to him and then was visited by her husband only at night, in complete darkness, and was sworn to never try and have a look at him. One night, as he slept, she did have a look, and saw a beautiful youth instead of a beast she expected, but then she scorched him with oil from her lamp, accidentally, and he woke up and was gone, and she had to spend a lifetime looking for him, and he only reappeared as she was dying of broken heart. She didn't want such a fate. She didn't think she needed to prove her love – it was apparent. And it hurt her that her lover kept hiding from her.

It frightened her how dependent on him she had become. The image of herself standing on the empty terrain with no one but him to keep her company has become absolute – it seized to be an image and became reality. Back in the old times she had a memory of her family; though distant, they existed, and there was a remote possibility of seeing them again. Here, in this world, he was her only companion – the only human being that she saw or talked to. He seemed to be sheltering her from the world – he kept her locked in the house, not as a prisoner, of course, she never thought that, but closely guarded still. She could understand him and his worries – she was abducted once, she was taken from him, and he spent a long time believing her lost forever, and he was not a man to forget that easily. He was very possessive, and he cared for her – of course he had to make sure no harm befell her. Yet she did wonder sometimes why he couldn't trust her a little more. She was not a child, after all.

What disturbed her even more than his paranoid obsession with her security were her own feelings. She felt she was completely wrapped in him – she thought only of him, she was restless if he were away, she longed for him constantly. In a way, she was almost as paranoid as he. Perhaps the memory of their separation, the time she spent in prison wishing desperately to be reunited with him, left its mark. Every moment he was away, she would panic: what if he never returned? What if they were lost to each other again? How would she live without him – what would she live _for_? He was her whole world, and not just because she knew no other men. She just felt that this one, her man, was irreplaceable for her. And it was not simply emotional despondency. She realized, with a measure of surprise natural in a girl raised up as a princess in an ancient kingdom, that she was physically… obsessed with him. His closeness, the feel of his skin, his scent, the touch of his lips, the fullness and hunger she felt as he entered her body, the look of his eyes, the sight of his intense face – all that was like a drug to her. She could spend hours just looking at him or gently caressing him. Sometimes, when he slept, she would lay by his side, watching his face, weary and relaxed, marveling at his fine, dry features; she'd run her fingers through his hair, straight and graying now, but just as silky as his 'beastly' mane used to be; she'd look at his body, at his beautiful hands and feet and his brittle spine, and remember that morning in the Dark Castle when she saw him sleeping on the bed naked and became acutely aware of him, physically. She thought him alien and beautiful then, and thought that touching him would be impossible. Yet now, she was not so sure. She felt that, if things worked out differently between them, she'd have loved to run her hand across his gold-speckled skin. It felt wonderful to press her face to his back and embrace him, kissing him between shoulder blades, running her hands across his stomach and towards his groin; it felt wonderful to hear his exited grunt, to feel his fingers entwine with hers as he caught her hand, and to feel his body tensing and hardening under her touch. He was like a drug to her; his reaction to her was a drug more powerful still. Perhaps such was the way of each and every love. She wouldn't know: her love for him was the only love she knew.

It hurt her terribly to wake up alone in their bed – she felt cold and neglected when he'd wake up before her, dress and go on his secret errands, which he did quite often; in this world, his habit of going to bed late and sleeping long into the morning has changed – he was an early riser now. One morning, she woke up alone after a really bad dream – a dream in which his double nature revealed itself in a particularly nasty way, a dream in which he didn't seem to care for her at all. Finding him gone, she felt close to tears – she was frightened, she needed his compassion; she wanted him near her. She felt desolate, and she went looking for him, and found him in his basement spinning and doing magic. His insistence on magic was just one of many things about which he'd keep her in the dark, and that morning, after her nightmare, it was too much. She did not object to magic as such – she was clever enough to understand it was important to him. She just wanted to be told _why_. Why was spinning and brewing some potion more important then being near her as she woke up? Why was magic more important then she was? She confronted him, got his usual brush-off, and suddenly had it again, this horrible feeling of being unable to reach him. She was angry; he was the meaning of her life, yet he kept being elusive with her. She needed to make a stand – to show him that his attitude hurt her.

She ran away, and life promptly gave her a harsh lesson. It seemed that the second she was out of his sight, she was in danger. She was abducted again, and her own father, whom she just found, threatened to destroy her memory simply out of spite towards her lover – that was a blow that nearly crushed her. She felt awful, as if she were not a living person, but a thing – an object of trade-off between grown-ups. That was when she realized she had to get herself some life of her own. It was self-destructive to depend on someone as much as she depended on Him. What would become of her if they were separated again? What would become of her if he died? She had to become a wholesome being that she had been before he took her away from her father's castle, otherwise she wouldn't survive. She felt awful as she told him he should stay away from her – telling him to leave her alone felt like cutting off her hand or tearing her heart out. Even as she spoke, she wondered if she were destroying her life. Yet she braced herself, and spoke of her feelings, and was pierced by the despair in his eyes.

But, oh wonder of wonders, it helped. He did come around – he changed his ways about her. He did what she always wanted him to do – he spoke to her, frankly. As he stood in the library he opened for her, as he told her his story, as he confessed his feelings and fears she could sense his tension; revealing himself like that was physically painful for him. Yet he did it, for her, and she knew than that he truly loved her. And she realized suddenly: that was where her strength lay. It was in his love. That was something that would give her courage and power to survive if she found herself alone. Whatever happened, he loved her; however difficult it was for him to express himself, he loved her; whenever he would admit it or not, he needed her. _That_ was her reason to live. It was strange to realize that being the love of somebody's life is the reason for your existence. She was raised up in a place and in times when love was an abstract concept rather then reality to be taken into consideration. She was raised to serve her country by being a good wife and a proper queen. She was prepared for a life of duty and never really expected to love and to be loved. Yet that was exactly what has become her duty. She loved a very difficult man, and was loved by him. That was a full-time job, and only she could do it.

And, as she realized all that, her love became her choice. It was not simply conditioned by magical deals and transcendent bonds anymore; she was with him not just because a spell separated her from the rest of the world and she had no one else but him to turn to. Her love was part of herself – a conscious decision as well as emotion. And whatever weird things he did now, whatever unpleasant stories she learned about him, it did not matter anymore – she knew there was nothing irrational in her attachment to him. She stayed with him for _herself_. She knew that people in town thought her crazy for being with him; they could not understand what 'such a good girl was doing with this bastard'. They thought she was wasting her life, yet she didn't care what they thought. Even he could not fully grasp why she stayed with him – she saw it in his eyes sometimes: the wonderment at her presence, the sadness at her devotion, and the unasked question of the reasons for her dedication. He asked her why she came back, all that time ago, and she couldn't give him a coherent answer. He seemed to be asking it all the time, still – there was often a look in his eyes that said: 'You couldn't be real, and mine. I will lose you eventually'. She was ready to fight that look now. She just would not let him lose her. Her answer would have been simple now. 'I came back because I_ wanted_ to', she'd have said.

She was back into his bed very soon after their talk in the library – he was so upset after his confrontation with Regina in the diner that she just had to go with him and comfort him in a way she knew best; she couldn't bear to see how worried for her he was, and how he needed to be reassured of her presence in his life; also, she wanted to come to his bed – she missed him so much. She did not hurry to move back into his house – she wanted a bit of space to let her newly found confidence grow. There was no hurry – she knew there would be time for everything now that she finally was at peace with herself. She felt secure in his arms as he came to comfort her when the pirate attacked her in the library. She felt very strong and proud as she helped him when the scarf he needed to find his son was stolen. She stood by his side as he tested the potion necessary to cross the town border. She felt she was fulfilling her duty, and she knew she was exactly where she was needed. In a way, it was not that different from serving her country, as she was prepared to – only she was serving her heart now, and gloried in it.

As they stood by the border, he outside the line, but still knowing himself and loving her, she inside, reaching towards him with her whole being, the moment was truly magical. Never, never was she surer of herself and of him. Never, never had she loved him more. She felt that nothing was beyond their power now – nothing could ever come between them; they were truly and fully united. She looked into his eyes, and knew she were home.

And then she felt a searing pain, and a wave of unnatural coldness, and her mind went blank; she found herself alone in a vastness filled with nothing, blinded by darkness, frightened and lost, and in her head she screamed like a wounded animal.

Only it was a silent scream, and nobody heard it.


	21. Chapter 21

21

Looking back at his life he could name but a few moments when he felt truly happy. He was happy when he married and bedded his wife for the first time: she was beautiful and passionate, and her body delivered all it promised then – unlike later, when she came to despise him and barely tolerated his touch, turning her very submission into an insult. He was happy when he held his son in his arms for the first time, and his heart unraveled at the purely physical feeling of this little person belonging to him, being part of him, unquestionably and unconditionally. He was happy when he discovered he loved Belle, for the first time, and lay in bed marveling at the miracle of her existence. But in the time he spent with her here, in this world, he'd lost count of moments – they were so many. The moments when he'd open his eyes in the morning and meet her eyes smiling at him. The moments when, even before opening his eyes, he'd feel the warmth of her body beside his, and reach out to clasp her hand. The moments when he'd be busy with something, and then she'd enter the room, visibly brightening it. The moment when, after she left him over his inability to be honest with her, and he came to explain himself, and did so with much effort, and started to leave the library, he heard her voice, asking him uncertainly on that silly hamburger date. All the moments when she was smiling up at him; all the moments when, walking beside him, she'd slip her hand under his arm, cuddling closer. The moment when they stood across the town border, and she looked at him with complete trust, her eyes full of love and bright with confidence in him – in them. He was happy then.

Looking back at his life, he could name many moments when he felt despair. He was desperate as he sat in his dark hut, watching Bae sleep, counting the hours before his birthday when the Duke's soldiers would come and take him away to slaughter. He was desperate as he howled on the spot where the magical portal just closed, taking his son away. He was desperate as he crushed his wife's heart in his hand, knowing, at that very instant, that he was doing a truly stupid and unforgivable thing, yet being unable to stop. He was desperate as he was sending Belle away and sacrificing the miracle they had for his need to amend his own mistakes. He was desperate when he believed her dead, and realized that even if – no, when – he found his son and redeemed himself, he'd never feel alive again, for there was no life for him without her. He thought he was desperate then.

Yet, as he kneeled beside her at the border, and looked into her empty eyes, and heard her frightened scream as she begged him to get away from her, he realized he knew nothing about despair; not yet. True despair he had yet to learn. He had to live through the desolation that entered his heart as he felt their bond snap – the new curse that came upon her fell on it like an axe, cutting a living thing in two, leaving the severed parts to bleed, trashing, on the ground. He had to live through frantic attempts to recover what was lost – he had to live through failure, over and over again. He had to live through blinding hope that true love would overcome her curse – if it were able to wake the dead, why not this? He never even stopped to consider what his kiss might do to him; even if it turned him human, so what? He'd have dealt with it, somehow. He would have dealt with anything if she were with him again. And yet he failed, and had to live through thinking that he was to blame for his failure; perhaps the curse he put upon himself stood in his way now, muddying their love, obscuring its force and true nature. He had to live through blaming himself for everything he ever did – it felt like his every action in life brought on that present horror.

He had to live to see her shrink from him in fear, to hear her scream at his sight; he had to live to see her break their cup, and feel as if she broke his heart, hurling it against the wall. He had to live through picking up the pieces, and feeling their dead weight in his hand.

True despair came with hopelessness, and he realized, with great humility, that he never before in his life felt truly hopeless; even in the darkest hours of his existence, he always had hope. True despair came with helplessness. He was so accustomed to power – he always believed his magic was omnipotent, yet it failed now. And even before magic, even as a weak human he knew he could always do _something_ – run, beg, use his wits, fight. He was completely helpless now – he could not do anything, anything at all.

He thought he was desperate when he lost her in the past, and was dying of pain, and losing his mind in the darkness of his solitude. Yet it was nothing compared to what he felt now, having known happiness and lost it.

He knew exactly why it happened, of course. He was paying the price for having her returned to him, alive. He was paying for a glimpse of happiness he experienced. He was paying for being distracted from his sworn quest. For an instant, for one dazzling instant he let himself go – he lived as if he deserved to live, he lived as if he forgot his vow to never love anything or anybody until he found his son. He broke his vow, and now he paid for it. And, as darkness followed everywhere he went, he took her along when he fell – he destroyed her life, as he always knew he would. He had no right to have anything for himself; yet, by wanting her for himself, he made her pay for his crimes. There was no punishment great enough for that.

His rush to finally find Bae was but a lame attempt of retribution – a miserable attempt to bargain with fate, saying: 'Look, I am doing what I have sworn to do – I am reformed – I am truly sorry I wavered – could you possibly show me some mercy?' Of course the attempt was doomed – fate doesn't bargain with losers. He felt nothing but helplessness as he traveled towards his son. He had lost his magic as soon as he crossed the border, yet this loss was not important, not really: he had lived without it for years, anyway – there was nothing new in the feeling. But now he lived with the knowledge that his magic was powerless even when he had it. That was what made him mad, that was what made him rage and beat the wall mindlessly in the airport toilet, trying to let some of his pain out of his mind by turning it into physical pain. Human or magical, he could not reach her – that thought filled his mind, driving him desperate, and it but foreshadowed his inability to communicate with his son. It was the cruelest joke fate could play on him: now, when he was so close to achieving his goal, it eluded him, for he lost his dedication; what was foremost for him for centuries became secondary to him in the face of his new loss, and he failed. He did not know what to say to the boy – he could not master proper words and feelings, for his heart wasn't in it. His heart was back there, with her, unwanted and bleeding.

His present surroundings were lost in a heavy haze of a confusing nightmare – nothing felt real. And as his enemy struck him, it did not feel real, too – not at first. He was just so _surprised_. It was strange to feel acute physical pain after centuries of not feeling any blows reach him. And, as very human pain filled his very human body, making him aware that the end of his journey was near, he felt strangely calm – content, almost. He deserved it. He said to himself there was no punishment great enough for his sins, yet he forgot about the ultimate punishment – death. He was paying a price for all that he's done, and it was… adequate. He turned the world around to achieve what he wanted, and it was not fate's fault that he failed. He still had to pay for the chance he was given.

He could not contest this deal. It was fair.

If only he could see her again, just once, before it was all over for him. Nothing mattered now, not anymore, nothing could be changed. Surely he could try and do something for himself, just this one more time? Surely he could give himself a chance to say goodbye.

There was no coherent plan in his mind as he asked to be taken back to his little magical town. He did not have a mind clear enough to think of saving himself – he just wanted to be closer to her. Survival instinct did kick in, eventually; while people scurried around him, trying to help him – oh, the infinite wonder of watching the good ones trying to save _him_, it was unbelievable, it was such a pity he was in no state to enjoy the spectacle… While they fussed around him, he did experience sudden surges of anger and determination; he told himself that he could not be beaten that easily, that he should fight for his life – that he should fight for his chance to see her again. He did work out a sort of a plan, he scared them into acting upon it – he still had it in him to bend them to his will. But the plan hung on a very thin tread, and he had no real faith in it.

He knew it was all over. It was obvious he would never see her again – there was simply no way. So he stopped struggling. He lay there, on the bed where he first made love to her, slipping in and out of consciousness, shaking with fever, listening to his son's worried voice, feeling the waves of magical protectiveness emanating from the girl his son loved, and kept thinking of Her. Even if he had a chance to choose, he would not have found a better place to die. Here, in this room, he knew the supreme joy of being with her. Here, on this bed, her body opened to him. Her scent still lingered here. If he just closed his eyes, he could imagine her near. If he let himself drift, he could just hear her voice, again… 'Let me love you', she said. If he just let himself go, he could forget that she did not love him anymore.

With all his magical powers, he was only human. He did not have the courage to die alone. He had to hear her voice. He had to tell her how much he loved her. It was a selfish wish – he knew it would only confuse her, and upset her. He knew that dying people have no right to presume upon the living, to make them feel ill about things that do not really concern them. It was unfair. People that are dying should not leave such burden with the living. Yet he was weak enough to succumb to his longing for her.

It felt so strange talking to her and knowing she doesn't care. Yet he forced that knowledge from his mind. May be one day she would remember, and then the things he said would matter to her. They would hurt her, yes – but she'd be glad to have something to remember him by. As he heard her surprised and polite small voice over the line, his breath caught. He wanted to tell her so many things. He wanted to tell her of his love – of all the things she meant to him, of all the light and the pain and the power and the glory she brought with her. He wanted to tell her everything about himself – he knew she wanted to know him. But there was no time for that – there was no time for anything anymore, and he had no strength to talk for long. So he told her the most important things – he told her about herself, as he saw her. And the way he saw her was the way she truly were, for he was looking at her through the eyes of love.

He talked quietly, struggling for words, struggling for breath. He listened to her breathing – there on the other end of the line. And when his voice left him, when he felt he doesn't have it in him to utter another word, he heard it – her sob. She sobbed, for him. She was crying for him, there on her hospital bed, so lonely and confused, so lost and helpless. Even so, she found a heart to sob for a man she didn't know. Of course she cried simply because she was a very good, very compassionate, very kind girl, and she probably would have been upset by anyone in his situation. Of course. But for him, the sound of her sob, muffled by the faulty telephone line, meant everything for, as he heard it, he felt it again – their bond, which he thought severed, tugged at his dying heart. The light of it, which he thought extinguished, glowed faintly, but even this shadow of a flame was enough to illuminate the darkness that slowly descended on him.

He closed his eyes, and let his own tears flow freely.

Looking back at his life, he could name but a few moments when he was truly happy. He was happy now.

So when the woman he once thought he loved came to kill him, he felt nothing but great pity for her. And, when she died in his stead, he felt reluctant to get back to living at first. What was the point, what was the purpose of fighting on if he made peace with himself? Yet, as the power filled him again, and brought him to his feet, as he felt the heaviness of his dagger in his hand, he knew what happened. He was given another chance, a chance to live and to love.

He just dreaded to think of the price he would have to pay for that.


	22. Chapter 22

22

People were real kind – real friendly, if you came to think of it. They were fussing around her, visiting her in the hospital, bringing her sweets, bringing her books, for goodness sake! Even the Mayor of the town came; a really friendly lady, that one. The elderly guy in a smart tie came many times, which was kind of him, but slightly embarrassing, for he did impose himself on her a bit and seemed to expect her to respond, somehow. But that was a general problem of all her visitors, actually – they all thought they knew her, and talked to her accordingly, and she, not having a clue whenever they were right or wrong, just smiled and nodded. Whereas now, when she knew herself, she could see that her well-wishers were completely off the mark about her. She was not shy or bookish or dependent, as their compassionate looks suggested; she could take care of herself, thank you very much. She had to – she had been on her own since God knows when: she never knew her mother, and as to her father… Well, she hadn't seen him for a while, and thanks heaven for that: the less caring, boorish, coarse man she could not imagine. As soon as she came of age he got rid of her, practically buying her off with a very 'generous' gift of a one-room apartment on the outskirts of the town. She never spoke to him since, nor had she wanted to. She was happy on her own, in her own small space, where no one would shout at her or to tell her which clothes to wear, or what to do with her time, or to spoil her fun.

That was precisely what she was doing since she left home – having fun. There was plenty to have here, at the bar; people were nice, music was good, and she never had to pay for her drinks – men always insisted on buying her one. And right now, leaning upon the sink at the ladies' and watching her face in the dim mirror, she had a feeling she had had one too many. Her cheeks felt slightly numb, and her vision was a bit bleary; sounds seemed to come as if from a distance. She'd probably have to slow down a little – it was too early in a day for being in such a state. What was the time, actually? She wasn't too sure. She creased her brow, trying to think straight. What time was it when she left home this morning? She didn't seem to be able to recall that. In fact, she didn't remember leaving home at all, or _being_ there at all. Did she spend the night somewhere else? How could she forget that? That was seriously disturbing. She always prided herself in being able to hold her drink – having a proper blackout felt alarming. She concentrated again, with no effect. She did remember being in the hospital, and the guy in a tie promising to help her when she'd be discharged. After that – nothing: the next thing she knew she was here, in a place she loved best, having a gin-and-tonic at the bar and saying hello to her regular crowd.

Thinking of the man in a hospital, she felt uneasy. It was not because of the strange revulsion that she felt towards him when she was first injured – that was gone as soon as he stopped pestering her and almost forgotten when they've stopped giving her so many drugs. No, she felt uneasy about the way she chucked him as she was leaving the hospital – she assumed she did, as she obviously left without him and was on her own now. He seemed a nice enough guy when he wasn't trying to kiss her – a bit mild, may be, but that was to be expected at his age – he must be at least fifty. He did seem eager to help, anyway. Well, what was done was done now – she was out, and he was left behind.

She shook her head, clearing it of dizziness and uneasiness, and splashed her face with cold water. It was a good thing she didn't need any powder or tone – reapplying them in such a light would have been problematic. Opening her clutch, she fished out her mascara and lipstick and freshened her make-up. Yep, she felt much better now, and the head was definitely clearer. She'd go and play some pool now, that's what she'd do – it will help her wear the rest of the drink off and restore her sense of well-being.

She was always extremely good at pool, and she enjoyed the game. It was so nice to move around the table, teasing the guys around with risky poses, to laugh, to be free. She was quite happy as she trashed her opponent, a meek fellow who kept sneezing all the time. And then _he_ – the tie-guy – came into the bar, and spoke to her, and looked at her very strangely: he was pale as sheet, as if he had seen a ghost. He called her by somebody else's name, just as people in the hospital did, and he seemed shocked and disappointed. This rubbed her the wrong way: what was wrong with her, why did she have to be somebody else – someone called 'Belle'? It was weird that, while it did not matter to her when other people made the mistake, when this guy spoke to her thus she felt instantly angry. He did make it look as if she was… worse than this 'Belle', a lesser-quality person. And anyway, who was he to judge? He might have been old enough to be her father, but he was _not_ her father, for crying out loud.

Well, she put him in his place – she brushed him away as briskly as she could (it was good luck that she did remember his name in time, otherwise she'd be at a disadvantage), and he retreated looking positively beaten. And the guys in the bar gave her very, very startled looks, and started to whisper. That was odd, so she asked them what made them uneasy. And the barman said: 'Well, Lacey, you've got some nerve, to talk to Mr. Gold like you did!' She asked why – the man looked harmless. The men exchanged glances, and started talking. Well, not talking really – hinting, mumbling, and stammering, telling her that Mr. Gold was all sorts of things he did not look. They said he owned the town – literally owned the ground it stood on. That everybody was in debt with him. That he was completely ruthless when dealing with his debtors – or with anyone who looked at him the wrong way, in fact. That was seriously baffling – she thought herself a good judge of character, and this fellow did not strike her as anything they talked about. Yet, they seemed very sure of their words, and positively scared of the man. Her fresh behavior with him awed them; his extremely mild reaction to it surprised them no end.

That intrigued her, and set her thinking. She was not sure her dear friends the bar-regulars could be trusted entirely – perhaps they were exaggerating; yet she felt annoyed with herself for not having seen deeper than the buttoned-up appearance of this Mr. Gold. She kept coming back to their brief encounters, questioning herself if there might have been more then met the eye in the man. Well, may be there was something – a set of the mouth, a certain coldness in the eyes, the distancing in the manner, that suggested that here was a man who was hiding something – some part of himself. If he was, she would have liked to find out – she was ever curious about people, and she had to admit that people that surrounded her usually weren't very interesting. All of them – all these guys in the bar – seemed hollow, one-dimensional. They were nice enough, but they were nobodies. This man, this Mr. Gold, might be _somebody_. And to think that she just sent him packing without a second glance!

She felt irritated with herself, and her mood dropped. She welcomed a drink that mysteriously appeared before her, and then welcomed another from the thuggish guy that had an eye on her for a while – a handsome enough fellow, if you liked that sort of brutal size, but not really her type. Still, he seemed ok, and there was no harm in letting him chat her up a bit. She was just considering letting him buy her another drink when Mr. Gold walked into the bar again.

She felt absurdly nervous, watching him out of the corner of her eye. He hesitated at the door, looking the place over. He was not alone; this time, he was accompanied with a tall, powerful guy with a nice, but rather stupid face – his bodyguard, perhaps? If this Mr. Gold was indeed the kind of kingpin in town, a sort of shadow authority of a slightly criminal nature he might have a need of the bodyguard, him being so slight and having a game leg. The big guy stayed behind, pretending to be busy with his beer. Mr. Gold came forward and spoke to her, and she suddenly found herself not knowing what to say. With dismay, she heard herself blabbing something about pop music – gosh, just how stupid was that, it was obvious this guy knew nothing about good music; it was just not his thing. She saw his puzzled face, felt like blushing, and hurriedly escaped to the jukebox, supposedly to illustrate her point in conversation, but in reality just to hide her face. She was making a fool of herself, for no reason at all, and she felt young and girlish, and unsettled.

She was bending over the jukebox playlist panel, not really seeing it, when she heard his voice behind her back. He was asking, in that curiously ceremonious way he had, whenever they could 'spend some time together'.

She wheeled around: 'You mean, like a date?'

He seemed hesitant. 'Yes. A date'.

She looked at him closely. She felt exited and interested – after all, if he was the man they said he was, then the most powerful guy in town was asking her for a date – in plain view of everybody – _after_ she already jilted him once! That was something. But she wanted to make sure he was talking to _her_.

'You do know that I am not this 'Belle' you are always talking about?'

'Yes, of course'.

He answered that one too quickly. She hesitated, watching him. His was a tired, lined, kind face. His eyes were sad. He looked nervous, and she was filled with doubts. There was no way this chap could be the dark power her friends described him to be.

'I've heard about you. People in town… They are afraid of you, Mr. Gold'.

He shook his head: 'Don't let that deter you. Give me a chance, please'.

She felt like snorting. Deter her? Why would it 'deter' her? What sort of word was that, anyway? It seemed that she'd have to buy a dictionary if she were going to date the man.

And, having said that to herself, she knew she _was_ going to date him.

She told him to be at Granny's the same night, and walked away, feeling the whole crowd at the bar watching her back in awed silence.

Then she went to the ladies' again, and washed her face again, and made it up again. Then she looked at her clothes, and found them inadequate, and catalogued her dresses mentally, and found all of them wanting. She went out, and bought herself a new dress, and new shoes. She did not feel like going home – she was too strained, strangely buzzing inside. She put the new dress on in the ladies' room, and then had another drink – just to steady her nerves.

She had thought of being elegantly late for her date, but did not manage it – she was too eager to get to Granny's to slow her walk down. He beat her to it, anyway – he was already there when she came. And, seeing his dapper, collected slight figure sitting there at the window table, with a carefully arranged unreadable expression on his face, she knew the date would go wrong. Her main reason for coming was her curiosity; and, by the look of him, Mr. Gold wasn't going to satisfy it. He kept avoiding her questions about his reputation. He was unaccountably nervous; he dropped the menu, he ordered without asking her what she wanted, and though she did not mind his choice, actually – Granny's burgers were good – she just had to make a stand and ask for something different. She saw that some things she did annoyed him, and took grim pleasure in doing exactly them. He pursed his lips at her order of wine – she filled her glass to the brim, and felt like draining it at once. All the time they were sitting there, she talking unthinkingly and feeling ridiculously overdressed, he mooning her with those dark eyes of his, searching in her face for something that wasn't there, she felt that both of them were in for a disappointment. He was obviously stubbornly trying to find 'Belle' in her; he wanted her to be somebody she wasn't, and that was bad enough, for it suggested that she wasn't good enough, and if it were so, why did he ask her out, anyway? Yes, that was bad enough, but there was something worse. She felt he was not open with her – _he_ was pretending to be somebody he wasn't; his assumed modesty about his position, his evasiveness, his studied pretentious remarks were maddening. The point when he said that she could have everything she wanted sounded actually filthy: he came across as a sugar-daddy promising well-financed future to a cheap whore.

There was one thing, which she valued in people above everything else: honesty. God knows she had enough bullshit in her life. And this man was not honest with her, and it felt… insulting. He intrigued her; she did want to see what would induce people to think him dangerous. She wanted to know him, and she obviously had no chance to.

By the time he turned over his stupid iced tea, staining her dress, she was thoroughly annoyed. She welcomed a chance to escape to the bathroom, for she knew that otherwise she'd say something rude. The wine didn't help, too: she felt reckless and her spirits were low, all at once. When she cleaned the stain, she hesitated whenever it was worth it to come back to the table. She did not want to eat that stupid chicken she ordered out of spite. She couldn't swallow a bite, anyway. She needed some space to think; she wanted to look into herself and check what pissed her off more, his inability (or unwillingness) to be honest with her, or the fact that he seemed to expect from her something she couldn't deliver. Anyway, both ways it was not good.

She needed a breath of fresh air, and went to the back entrance of the Diner. The night was chilly; she shivered in her short dress. She felt sad. For the first time in a very long time she took fancy to a man, and it was all in vain: they didn't seem to connect, at all. She glimpsed the big guy who tried to pick her up at the bar earlier: he must have been passing by, and saw her standing there all alone, and said 'Hi'. He was honest enough – it was easy to see what he wanted from her. 'What the hell', she thought tiredly, and stepped down into his greedy hands. At least this guy wasn't reserved, and he didn't look at her as if she stunk, and he took her for what she was, and didn't expect from her more than she could deliver. The fact that she didn't like him, and his kisses were too sloppy, and his palms sweaty, didn't matter too much. A girl can put up with a lot just for the chance to be accepted – to be valued as she is.

She wasn't thinking much as the guy was kissing her, and she wasn't feeling much. Perhaps she has drunk more than she thought. Or may be she was just terribly, terribly unhappy. It was funny: she never felt she was unhappy until this abortive date with Mr. Gold, but now she knew it for a fact. She was very unhappy. And lonely. And unloved.

She felt like crying, but it is very difficult to cry when you are being kissed on the mouth by the guy you don't really fancy. She closed her eyes, and let her mind drift. It was going to be over soon, anyway – men that are _that _enthusiastic at the start rarely ran long-distance.

It was over even sooner than she thought, for her admirer was thrown bodily away from her. He stuttered something; Mr. Gold yelled at him angrily. And, though the big guy's fear and Gold's extreme anger seemed to confirm partly what people were saying about him and what he so consistently denied, it was all completely ridiculous. He behaved as if she was a damsel in distress, and he was her noble protector. He seemed shocked she could have wanted to kiss somebody, and to be kissed by somebody. It appeared he didn't even realize that she wasn't happy on their 'date', and did not listen properly when she tried to explain why. It was perfectly clear that he was still looking at her, and wishing to see somebody else. And it hurt. She never felt so diminished, so cheated and so neglected in her life.

When he mentioned their alleged 'past' again, she couldn't stop herself from saying it out loud, angrily, almost shouting: 'This is still about Belle, isn't it? Look, Mr. Gold, I am sorry, she may have loved you – but I am _not her_!'

Surely he could understand that it was insulting for a girl to be treated in such a way – to be dismissed in such a way for somebody who existed only in his imagination?_ She_ was here. Wasn't she good enough, or interesting enough, or beautiful enough, or whatever else it was that he wanted from that other girl he took her to be?

She left him standing there in the backyard among the rubbish bins, muttering something. She ran back to Granny's bathroom, locked herself in, and cried terribly.

She did not know why it hurt so much that he didn't see her for what she was, and didn't appreciate her, and didn't want her to know him – the real him. It was absurd, she hardly knew the man; he was nothing to her. Yet it hurt awfully, and it took her a long time to calm down.

She heard him from behind the locked door; he said to Granny, quite curtly, that they will not be dining today, and asked for the bill. He obviously paid it and left; she heard the sound of his cane tapping the floor. She sniffled. Now that he was gone, she could go too.

She looked at the mirror at her flushed face, and grimaced. She seemed to spend a lot of time in bathrooms today. Well, it was a weird day – a strange day. She'd have to make herself a stiff drink at home, before she turned in. No more bars tonight. She was too tired.

She walked out of the bathroom, trying to avoid Granny's disapproving glare. She took her coat off the hook, and walked out of the Diner, and then stood hesitating, not knowing which way to turn. She wasn't sure which way Mr. Gold went, but instinctively felt like taking another route. She couldn't face him again tonight.

After a while, she decided to go by the car park. It was shorter, anyway.

As she was turning the corner, she heard strange sounds – systematic heavy thuds, dull, followed by muffled grunts. It sounded as if somebody was beating up a huge piece of meat, and it responded in a mute but pained way.

She walked into the car park to see detached, elegant and cool Mr. Gold violently beating with his cane the man who kissed her.

She stood, watching him, transfixed.

He was completely changed. He was electrified – fuelled with fury, demonic. He was himself, apparently, he did not pretend to be anything he wasn't, and she felt a surge of energy and power emanating from him. He seemed… alive, and real, and at the same time he seemed to be something _much more_ than he looked.

Now she could believe everything people said about him. Now she saw it in him – the authority, the ruthlessness, the power to get what he wanted at any given price. He looked as if he had a natural, indisputable _right_ to command the world around him – and, because of that, she knew she would never resent him ordering her around again, as she did earlier.

She liked this man so much better then the sugar-daddy he pretended to be before.

She stepped forward, and told him so. He gave her a startled, searching look: for a second his dark eyes seemed to turn completely black, empty and still as eyes of a snake. But then something in them changed – a kind of recognition dawned on him; and, for the first time, she knew he was looking at _her_, as she was, and that he liked what he saw.


	23. Chapter 23

23

They say that sometimes for people who sustain prolonged torture comes a moment when the pain, which was building up so as to become unbearable for human flesh to take anymore, turns into a twisted pleasure; the sufferer's brain, incapable of mastering the agony, inverts it, and the torture victim experiences extreme arousal and sexual tension. Agony turns into ecstasy; pain becomes literally orgasmic. It is a coping mechanism provided to our bodies by nature, but there is no coming back from this state, no normality for the survivor. Physical wounds could heal; the damage to the brain is permanent – it just snaps, loosing all connection with reality, all judgment of relative value and meaning of things.

He had read about this horrible phenomenon somewhere. He was living through it now. That moment there, on the car park, when he turned from his victim to face her and his darkened gaze has met her beautiful eyes, alight with excitement and wonder and awed admiration at his disgraceful behavior, was when he started his descent into hell; yet, when the raging flames licked his body, he felt the burns as caresses. That was when he understood the full scope of what he's done; the depth and the irreversible nature of his guilt. And that was when he first felt the liberating madness that comes with knowing that there is no redemption. She was lost forever – turned into a damaged creature that couldn't be saved, and he was lost with her. They were damned and doomed, together. And the temptation to go down with thunder and flames proved too strong to resist. They were beyond salvation now. They could enjoy their damnation at least.

He never fully felt his darkness, never let it flow unchecked; in all his actions there always was a measure of control, born out of survival instinct, perhaps. There was no reason to control it now for, having ruined _her_, he had no reason to survive. How ironic, how pitiful, and how cruel of him was to want her with him in his darkest hour. A strong man would have left her rather then drag her down with him. But he was weak; he always was a coward – he feared loneliness. He wanted her near, even if it destroyed her further. He wanted her, even if she was not, truly, herself. He was _that_ eager for love. He could not live without her, and he could not die without her. It was quite simple, really.

When he first saw her there in the bar, playing pool, laughing and drinking, he felt physically sick. His eyes lost focus for a second, and memories rushed back to him: he seemed to be looking at his wife, there in the tavern where she had met her pirate, and gambled with him, and laughed, and drunk. For the first time the resemblance struck him and he realized, with dismay, that they were alike, the women he loved. Dark hair, abundance of locks, bright eyes and bodies that advertised the enjoyment life brought them; they were full of life, the women he chose. Their bodies promised they'd teach him to live fully, too. But in Belle, there was always something else – something more. She did not only promise – she _did_ teach him to live differently. Other women needed something to light them up. In his wife's case, it was fantasy – a dream of a strong man, which she eventually realized with another. For Cora it was magic – magic borrowed from him, magic that eventually made her jealous and resentful of him. Belle needed no outside light. She _was_ the light. And now the light was gone.

All the time he frantically went around town, confronting the Queen, asking the Prince to help, some part of his mind was elsewhere – screaming in pain, cursing itself, drowning in guilt. However strongly he blamed Regina, she really just brought to life the horror he created. Everything was his fault. It was his curse that contained this ruined girl in its depths. He was the perpetrator of her fall. His imagination created her, his will robbed her of grace. How could it even happen if, as he perfected the curse, he believed her dead? Did his very love, which went on so persistently, holding her in his heart as a fixed image, made her part of the disastrous scheme? What darkness, what unimaginable darkness he had in him to plan _that_ for her – to turn her into this nervous, insecure, damaged girl, burdened with suppressed horrors she had to drown in wine, so unloved and so eager for love and affection that she needed cheap comraderie of drunks to cheer her up, dressed to invite trouble and was ready to flaunt herself on any passing man?

He needed to undo what he's done. He needed to bring her back. He needed to save her. He was ready to do anything for that. His will was once strong enough to oppose true love. Surely his will would be able to bring it back to life? Ah, forget the great magical events – they were always hard to predict. He needed to simply take her off the streets. He needed to protect her, as he promised he would. Who would have thought he'd have to protect her from herself?

He hoped it would be easy – she was a good girl, only she lost her way, completely. He hoped that gentleness and care would soothe her – would induce her to trust him. That would have been something – that would have been a good start. But she didn't want his gentleness; she was not ready to trust him; he felt her teenage rebellion at every twist and turn of the conversation. What torture it was to hear her say the words and phrases from the past. What torture it was to understand that for this version of her truth was just as essential as for the old one, and he was just as unable to meet this, her simplest and most important need – for him to be honest with her. He could never show Belle just how dark he was, for fear of losing her, and Belle was strong. How could he show his true self to this little thing, already so scarred and damaged?

What a shock it was to realize that his darkness was exactly what she wanted to see; what a horror. Not only did he bring her to life inside the curse, by longing for her. It appeared that his darkest side did it: tired of being checked and suppressed, it sneaked into his planning and created a dark soul-mate for itself. The source of light was turned into the deepest of shadows and, manifested in the body which always drove him insane with want it now lured him into the depths of darkness. And the lure was irresistible.

The girl he wanted more than anything else in the world and had despaired to reach was answering to his call, finally, even if in a very sick way. How could he resist? She liked him; she wanted him – at least part of him. It was something. It was better then nothing. He longed for her so – he missed her so; it was such a long time since he touched her, and his whole body was aching for her. And here she was, standing so maddeningly close, smiling, looking at him invitingly, and yes, her breath smelled of drink, and yes, her clothing was more fitting for a slut than for a princess, yet did not all that – the recklessness, the glinting eyes, the exposed legs – advertise the very joy of life he always found so powerfully attractive? He refused to see all these things in his darling girl of old; but what if they were always there, and he was unfair in denying that this side of her existed? He did not show himself to her fully, and he did not see her fully. Perhaps it was just and right to correct that. Perhaps it was a good thing to be bad for her.

He was so, so confused. And, hoping against hope, reasoning against reason, becoming more and more aware of her closeness, smelling her excitement, feeling her admiring gaze, he was slipping, slipping, slipping further into the shadows that beckoned. The man who was secretly glad that she stopped his hand as he was firing the magic bow, the man who gloried in her grateful hug, the man who basked in her light stepped aside. The man who always felt guilty and neglected, the man bitter at the unfairness of the world, the man tired of being ashamed of himself stepped forward, and demanded what was due to him. Here was a girl that was ready to accept that other man. She welcomed him. He wanted to have her.

As his victim stopped moaning, having lost consciousness, he lowered his cane and turned to her, breathing heavily. It was not from the exertion; he was aroused. He never let his dark side run so freely with her around; it was incredible how physically exiting violence was if she watched him indulge in it. She looked at him intently. Her legs were drawn together; her hands were pressed to her hips, her breasts reached forward, as if inviting his touch. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes dreamy; she was biting her lip. She wanted him – there was no mistaking this look, he had seen it before, God, he knew her so well!..

He took a step towards her, and she instinctively stepped back, pressing herself against the wall. She looked so defenseless and open as she stood there, watching him, asking to be had. There was always something shy and reserved about his Belle when it came to bed; she never led, she just followed. There was nothing shy and reserved about her now, and he could not ignore the pull.

He stood in front of her, his hand reaching her neck, clasping it; he felt her shiver, and knew it to be from excitement. His face was very close to hers: 'Is this what you wanted to see?'

'Yes'. Her voice was but a whisper, her eyes were half-closed as she lifted her face towards him, asking for a kiss.

He run his hand down the length of her shoulder, and cupped her breast, feeling the hardening of her nipple even through her coat. 'Is this what you wanted to feel?'

'Yes'. Her voice caught, turning the word into a moan.

Still holding her breast, he let go of his cane, hearing it fall onto the ground with a dull thud, and put his free hand on her thigh, brushing his fingers upwards, reaching the hem of her stocking, feeling the smoothness of her warm skin, ignoring her surprised gasp, pushing her dress up. Her eyes closed, her breathing was shallow. She had thrown her head back against the brick wall.

His hand rested on her buttock – naked. There was no underwear, and his heart skipped a beat. 'If he', he jerked his head towards the prostate body on the ground as he spoke evenly, 'if he undressed you, he is going to die now'.

She opened her eyes, and looked into his. 'Let him live, for now. He did nothing'.

Desire ran through him like electric current, echoing painfully in every inch of his body. 'You came like that?' He pressed his lips to her exposed throat.

'Yes', she whispered into his hair. 'Yes, I came like that'.

His mind went blank – he could not stop now even if he wanted to; there was simply nothing of him left besides his need to have her, at once. He ripped her coat open; he pushed her dress up, and glanced at her. His breath caught. He let go of her for a second to unbutton his trousers; she stood before him, panting, skin of her thighs milky-white, hair between them dark. He put his hand there. She was wet. He growled, and turned her around, so that he was standing against the wall and she was facing him. Damn his bad leg, he needed to support himself against something. He pulled her up then, and rushed into her blindly; she clutched his shoulders, and her legs crossed behind his back; she didn't mind that her knees were grazing against the bricks. Their lips met, finally, and the sour taste of drink in her mouth was intoxicating. He bit her lip, and tasted the blood, and licked the wound, and sucked her tongue.

She cried out as she came. He hissed through gritted teeth.

They remained still for several minutes, entwined, breathing into each other's necks, his semen slowly leaking from her and smearing her legs.

Never in his life has he felt anything as intense as that. He was blinded by desire, stunned by the force of his release. The beast in him was free, and it roared.

He felt like an animal. God, he _was_ an animal. He just had her on the street, against the wall, as a common whore. How could he? Where did the man who wanted to protect her go? Was using her like that the right way to win her trust? How could he debase her so?..

And how could he want her, again – how could he still be ready to have her, there inside her, if he really felt so guilty about it?

And she seemed to be _happy_. She uttered a gentle giggle, and raised her head to kiss him. He kissed her in return, and slowly put her on the ground.

Her eyes were smiling. 'Well, Mr. Gold, will you buy me a drink? I think I need one'.

She looked so much like herself as she smiled at him that it tore his heart. She looked so much like herself that it was impossible to feel regret for what he'd done. Anything, he'd do anything as long as it made her happy. Anything, as long as she felt good around him. Anything to keep her with him.

'And do not lie to yourself, you beast. You are happy to be free around her', said a voice inside him.

To her, he chuckled: 'Yes, my darling girl. Of course I will buy you a drink. Anything you want, you shall have it, didn't I say so?'

She snorted, and pulled her dress down, fastening her coat with a belt now that buttons were mostly gone. He buttoned up, too, and picked his cane. His hand around her waist, they walked towards 'The Rabbit Hole', and darkness followed at their heels, but he chose to ignore it.

Sitting with her in the bar, watching her lit up face he could not make himself think of the price he was going to pay for what came to pass today. His life was full of risky deals lately; it was obvious this one was going to cost him, too. But he could not think about it now. Not when she was so close, and so happy. He had spent years thinking her dead. She was alive now, and with him. Shouldn't he be grateful for that? He thought he'd die without seeing her again, just two days ago, and yet here he was, holding her. Shouldn't he be grateful for _that_?

He'd try and close his eyes at everything that jarred. He will not think of the laughter too harsh, or a phrase too coarse, or of a gaze dimmed with drink. She is still somewhere there, inside. She is hurting, but he would nurse her to health. He would bring her light back.

The voice inside his head, his own voice, whining and teasing, the one he had when he was mad and bad in the past, asked him, derisively: 'And how are you going to do that, Dark One?' He told it to shut up.

He closed his eyes, and drew her to him, and kissed her fully and deeply on the lips, finding her tongue, making her moan softly – right there, in the middle of the bar, in plain sight of everyone who hadn't drunk themselves into stupor yet. He suddenly felt wonderfully free and reckless. His power was back, his son was back, and now she was back, too. He could let himself go – he could let himself live.

He would not think of the price.

Her drunken breath was hot on his cheek, and the darkness clouding around them felt red-hot, too. 'You know, Mr. Gold, I think I have fallen in love with you', she said, her voice slightly slurring.

He looked down into her eyes – still magical, still hers, not empty anymore. 'Come on, my darling B… beautiful girl. I will take you home'.

She smiled, and leaned on his shoulder.

He suddenly felt like having a large and stiff drink, too. But he was drunk enough by having her near.

His mind slipped, turning his guilt and pain into ecstasy, sometime during the events of that night. He did not notice it. He could not – he was too lost in the magic of the moment, not caring that this magic was dark.


	24. Chapter 24

24

She was terribly in love. Yes, terribly – not 'madly', or 'very much', or 'passionately'; these words that people normally used speaking of love were not right to describe what was happening to her. They were not strong enough, or they were too pompous or too… cold. They would not do. Her love was so sudden, so deep, so intense, so frightening, so inescapably overwhelming, so life-changing, so absolute, so natural, so raw, and somehow, though her lover kept her by his side day and night, her love felt hopeless. 'Terribly' described it all.

She was so very surprised to fall in love at all (and she did _fall_ into it, literally – one second she was her normal self, the next she was gone, totally submerged in Him). She somehow always thought she was not the falling-in-love type; she did not remember ever dreaming of a perfect boyfriend, for example, even when she was little. She could never say who her 'type' was, whenever she preferred tall guys or blonde ones or whatever – she just never thought of it. She wasn't really noticing men, most of the time, and never caught herself building an image of her future husband or something. And it was for the best, perhaps, for the man she did fall in love with wouldn't have fitted into any teenage dream. Even if she did dream of falling in love, she would have never imagined a lover like hers.

It was lucky that she didn't have a mother or any friends – it would have been so difficult to explain him to them. He was so unlike anything that might appeal to a girl her age. He was old. He was not handsome – she knew he was not. _She_ found his thin irregular face mesmerizing, she could spend hours tracing lines around his eyes and mouth, or stroking his graying hair, she would kiss his beautiful hands, dry and papery as hands of old people sometimes are, she could stare into his dark, dark eyes and lose herself in them, but she understood no one else would ever call him handsome. He was not strong or powerfully built – girls were supposed to like that; no, he was very slight, brittle, almost, yet she was amazed at the strength and stamina contained in his light body: if ever people talked about appearances being deceptive, that was his case. He was distant and aloof, he dressed like a prig; she'd never have thought she'd go out with a man in a three-piece suit and a tie and silk socks. None of the people she knew would ever imagine her with such a prim chap. But then, they didn't know what hurricane of emotions and passions he hid under that suit – how much energy he had, how strongly he felt and how directly he loved. Atomic bomb does not look very impressive on the outside, but look at what it can do; he was the same. Sometimes she thought of his suits as of a sort of protection he put between himself and the world – not to keep the world at bay, mind: to protect the world from _him_.

They didn't have much in common: there weren't many things about which they could talk – she knew she was too simple for him and, though he was very patient with her, most of the time she didn't understand half of the words he was using. He was a difficult man, his temper was snappy, some of his remarks stung her and hurt her; yet he always took hold of himself, almost at once, and would make it up for her: he'd give her something, or kiss her, or take her to bed – or to any surface available, if truth be told. He was incredibly possessive, which she found very exiting, and that was strange, for she always fancied herself to be a free spirit. In theory, she would have opposed any attempt to boss her or limit her freedom, but when he was ordering her around, she happily obliged. 'Wait here, Lacey', 'Stay in the shop, Lacey', 'Go into the other room, darling…' Who would have thought she'd be happy to be dragged around by his side, as if on a leash, like a submissive girlfriend of some mafia-boss? Yet he seemed to have some secret power about him – he had a right to boss her; he was _supposed_ to boss her. May be she resisted all previous attempts to constrain her because she felt that there was a man who had a right to do it; she refused to be owned by others, because her real master was around, somewhere. Now she has met him, and her life took on a new meaning.

Yes, that was what terrified her the most: he _meant_ so much to her. She felt that, before she met him, she sort of wandered in the dark, without any sense of direction, not really knowing herself. But then he appeared, and everything changed. Life had meaning. _She_ had meaning. And it was frightening. She felt so anxious about him, about herself. What if she lost him? What if he died? What if he would leave her, what if his sudden fancy would change, and he would drop her just as easily as he picked her up? What would become of her? She felt alive, she felt real only as long as he was near. It was awful to be so dependent on him. It was awful and humiliating to be so _needy_ – she wanted to see him, all the time, she longed for his touch; she wanted to hear his voice – that deep, sad voice he had; she wanted to always watch his face, his ever-changing, mobile face, with brows lifted, eyes darkening, lips giving a quirky grin. She knew it was a bad thing to cling to him so; men tired of clingy women. Yet she couldn't stop herself. She constantly needed to be reassured that she had him and that they were together. And it drove her crazy to realize that every time she asked for more and more devotion from him, she was ruining things – she was probably bringing the moment when he tired of her closer.

She didn't know where this anxiety came from; he was actually very kind to her. Cold and ruthless to the outside world, he was infinitely gentle with her; even the roughest sex was caring. He was always protecting her from some danger that only he could see; he was shielding her from the world, holding her in his pocket or in the palm of his hand like some very precious, very fragile thing. He seemed to be afraid she could break, suddenly. He did things to please her. He let her do things she wanted – the time when he was pursing his lips at her drinking was gone; he was always ready to refill her glass if she wanted it. And she did think sometimes that perhaps she should go easier on that – after all she did remember that he disliked it. But she was so anxious she needed to calm her nerves. Ah, it was awful – to be with the man who meant the world to you, and still be so afraid to lose him as to do the very thing that actually might drive him away!

It also felt somehow unjust that he thought her so weak and brittle. She thought that was probably a mistake on his part. She was stronger than she looked, she did not need to be pampered all the time. She, too, wanted to take care of him – she felt she had it in her, and, what was more important, she felt that he needed it. There was some part of him that remained closed to her – something that he didn't show her so as not to upset her. Something painful. He was hurting, inside, even in their happiest moments together, and she wanted to help him, but he didn't give her even a chance. And it was bad, because deep inside her she had a curious feeling that if he opened to her that would help her more than his protectiveness and his tolerance. If he trusted her, something new might waken in her; she'd become stronger, for him. Sometimes she wondered about this other girl he apparently knew and lost, the girl she reminded him of, the girl that first made him notice her. It pained her to think about it, but she did, for she realized that it might explain something about his attitude to her. She wondered what was different about them; she wondered what she lacked, and the other one possessed, and the other way round. She wondered what happened to her – it must have been something awful to make him act so carefully around her, as if a tragedy from the past could cast a shadow upon their present. Sometimes she wondered, wildly, if he was right after all, and this other girl was indeed hidden there inside her, somehow. She wondered if she could ever find her in herself, and wondered if she wanted to. Perhaps she was finding her – seeing glimpses of her. Perhaps that was what made her feel there was a possibility of change in her, and the only thing she needed for it to happen was for him to really, really love her.

She felt it even now, sometimes, especially when he held her in his arms – it is impossible to be withdrawn during love-making, and he did open to her as he had her; she felt connected to him, she felt she knew him then. Perhaps he felt it, too – perhaps that was why he was so insatiable. And he was – they hardly slept at night, and even during the day, when he took her with him to his shop, he would lock the front door and take her into the backroom, and time would suspend. He'd sit her on his desk, and draw her legs apart, and take off her shoes and stockings, and pull her dress from her shoulders, and down beneath her breasts, so that she would sit there, naked above and below, breathing heavily, and he'd just stand there fully clothed, in his bloody tie, and _look_ at her, for several minutes, taking her in, watching her nipples harden, smelling her arousal, look at her with his dark eyes becoming flat, and then, when she'd feel like burning, he'd slowly put his fingers between her legs and start pushing them in and out, in and out, and she'd throw her head back, and moan, and then, suddenly, he'd grab her legs and pull her forward, so she'd fall on her back and be spread on the desk before him, and he'd step closer, and press her opened wetness to his groin, rubbing her against the fabric of his damned suit, letting her feel how hard he is, and then she'd clutch the side of the desk with her hands, and moan again, and then he'd open his pants, finally, thank God, and push into her, and she'd come, at once, and he'd start moving in her, and she'd feel it all again, the tension, the build up, and then she'd scream, and he'd lick her nipples as he comes, and groan, and stay on top of her, trembling, his face buried between her breasts.

It was humiliating to be so much in his power. Yet she didn't mind. She loved it. She loved _him_, and whatever he did, was right. And if he wanted to prey on her body and pray to it as if she were a pagan goddess, that was all right. May be if he did as he pleased often enough, if he had things completely his way often enough, he'd feel less pain, and she would become more then a body to torment and please for him.

That was what she wanted more than anything else in the world – to be complete and real for him. That, and to never, never lose him. And there came a moment when these things suddenly became a possibility. She has learned the strangest, the most unbelievable thing about him; she has learned that he possessed magic. Any other girl would have run away screaming: looking at the man you sleep with and seeing him pull things out of thin air can only mean one thing – that you are mad. Magic doesn't exist; any sane person knows that. But her submersion in him was so absolute that, seeing the unbelievable things he did, she felt relieved. It explained everything: his power, his secrets, his remoteness from the world, his loneliness; for of course people shunned him, for being different, even as they used his powers. And this new knowledge changed her role in his life. She was not just a silly gullible girl obsessed by a father-figure lover. She loved a _wizard_. He had chosen her to be with him; he thought her worthy. She was the woman who could share his fate, stay by his side when everyone else abandoned him. He _wanted_ her to. That separated her from the rest of the world and bound them together.

And the powers he had meant that she would never have to lose him. They could be together forever, and forever is a very long time; time enough to love and know each other, time enough to heal and bloom. Time enough for everything.


	25. Chapter 25

25

Three times during his lifetime he thought he was losing his mind. The first one was when he killed his predecessor with the cursed dagger, and felt the onslaught of magic that came to change his body and reshape his mind, redefining the limits of possibilities, adjusting the sense of right and wrong, revaluing his place in the universe. The second one was when he went through the final stages of building his curse, while believing Belle dead; the agony he was living through was so fierce that it obliterated parts of his consciousness, rendering him unable to tell if he was alive or dead himself. The third time was when he woke up in the enchanted town he created and, while oblivious of his real identity and circumstances of his life, still experienced strange visions of the world he made himself forget, and they were so real that he had no way of telling whenever these things indeed happened or existed only in his imagination. Each of the occasions was painful in its' own way. Each one was a fight: to know himself, to control himself, to survive. Each time his mind was turned into a mess of confusing emotions and images, and he plunged in and out of madness, clutching at things he knew to be real and important and valuable: his son, his love, his dignity. Each time was hard, but each time he felt the battle wasn't lost; each time he felt he had it in him to eventually overcome the darkness. Each time he realized he still had a mind to lose, and that assured his victory.

Now came the fourth time, and it was different. The pain was here again, and the confusion became total, but this time there was no fight. There was nothing real or important or valuable any more – nothing to hold on to. His love was deformed, his dignity lost, yet he had no mind to acknowledge that. He has given in; the darkness has won, and he surrendered.

Each time in the past he _thought_ he was going mad. Now he knew it. The difference is subtle, but tangible. While still fighting, the brain defines the fine line between what it imagines and what it knows to be true; delusions might be strong, but they are recognized as such. When the battle is lost, delusions become reality – they shape the world to their liking, infusing it with their twisted logic. There are no two realities for a madman: the one he lives in is the only one that exists, and any doubt in it makes him furious.

He was not mad, yet: he knew the real world existed. He would emerge from the dark, self-indulgent, pain-ridden, and lustful abandonment in which he wallowed, sometimes, and glimpse it – the actual truth, the enormous horror of his thoughts and actions. Yet those glimpses did not make him stop, or even want to stop. He was irritated by intrusions; he wanted them to be over as soon as possible. He wanted back into the red mist where things were the way he shaped them, where guilt was part of the gain, and pain was part of the pleasure. He wanted the moments of truth to seize happening: they were painful and pointless. He did not fight approaching madness; he descended into it almost thankfully.

He always wanted to know how it felt – to live for himself only, to have no obligations, no duties, no moral responsibilities to anybody. He never had a chance; first, he was too weak, then he was a father, later he became a slave to his need to find redemption. He had to fight for his life, care for his child, and serve the good people of the world he despised so that he can make this world bend to his will. Now he was immortal, his son was a grown-up man, and he needed nothing from people around him, so had no reason to even talk to them, let alone help them. He owed them nothing, and asked for nothing but to be left alone with the woman who drove him mad.

He has spent a lifetime searching for her, and another lifetime longing for her. He died over her death, and woke up with her return. He lived through despair of ruining her, and he came to accept what he was given. He realized what his mistake was, back there in the past – all his life, really. He always believed he would find a woman who will save him, change him for the better, fill his life with light. But why should he? What _was_ he to expect anything so wonderful and glorious? He was nothing, and he deserved no miracles. But still he has got himself a miracle of sorts. Why, he has got everything he ever wished for. A pitiful and ugly man, he has got himself a voluptuous beauty. A bore and a prig, he has got a woman with a ready laugh and a heart for adventure. An evil and selfish man, he has got a woman who never questioned his judgment or his rights. A loner, he has got himself a constant companion. A man eager for affection, he has got himself a woman who trembled at his slightest touch – at his look, even. A man never appreciated, he has got himself a woman who accepted him unconditionally. And she _loved_ him. He knew it – he felt it; something bloomed in this poor lost girl when he looked at her, a glow illuminated her features, her eyes cleared and shone at him. Her love wrapped around him like a physical thing; its waves lapped at him, touching him, trying to get in – not to change him, as in the past, but to warm him.

In her own damaged and clumsy way she was trying to build their bond. It was he who sabotaged her efforts. Not out of self-defense, as in the past. God knows he did not care for survival now, after everything he's done. God knows he was not afraid to die. He would have given anything to bring her back; he would have sacrificed anything, his power and his life included, for a chance to love her. He simply did not have it in him to love her as he loved _Her_.

Oh he _did_ love her – he loved her with a bleeding heart, hurting at her fragility, amazed at her stubborn vitality, charmed by her directness, touched by her devotion, driven to distraction by her generous body and easy virtue. She was probably better suited for him, now, than she ever was when she was herself. His darkness did not weight upon her heart, did not oppress or depress her; she did not torture him with reproof, silent or outspoken, as she used to. But she also did not drive him to become better, and _that_ – Belle's ability to give him strength to suffer for his own goodness – was what she lacked and what he missed. He was a man divided within himself, and it would not do to love just one part of him. Belle understood it, even though he cursed her love away: he did wonder sometimes if that curse he put on himself when she first kissed him survived after her return. It might have been broken; it might have disappeared silently, unnoticed, in the turmoil of feelings they both went through then. He certainly did not feel himself unreachable to love as he watched her smile at him across the city border – God, it was the last time _they_ have seen each other, as themselves... He had no way to know the fate of this curse now, for _this_ girl did not challenge it. She loved what he showed her, but he has learned a long time ago that his perception of himself was faulty: the real _he_ was not the man he cursed, and Belle knew it, and that made her able to connect with him even through time and space. This girl's love for him, and his for her did not connect. They reached towards each other blindly, and the treads leading from heart to heart did not join but hang in the air limply.

It might have been easier if the women he loved did not share the same body. If she looked differently, he would have been able to see her true beauty – his eyes wouldn't have been blinded by the perfection she was before. Sometimes, as she slept, he'd lay by her side, and watch her reposed face. She was herself when she slept, and it broke his heart. He longed to touch her then, to wake her up with a kiss, but he knew that the instant she'd open her eyes his Belle would be gone. There was no true love's kiss for them; his kiss would not wake his sleeping beauty, but plunge her deeper into the magic slumber. So he would just look at her, as through a dark glass, and he would weep. And then she'd wake up, and turn her eager face to him, asking for a kiss, and the real nightmare would start, for the body he always found entrancing would call to him, spreading out before him, waking his darkest, deepest needs, tempting him to forget that the soul in it was different now.

This body was irresistible to him, always, but doubly so now that the girl who owned it was completely defenseless before him. He had power over her, and power corrupts. He who once castigated himself for thinking shameful thoughts of the woman he loved could make them as real as he pleased now, and there is no man born yet who could resist such a temptation. He could have had her any way he wanted, and he did. There was no room in the house or in the shop where he hasn't had her; as they were coming home from the bar on the first night he had her in his car, on top of him. The heavy scent of sex permeated the air they breathed; every place brought on a memory – of how he watched her go up the stairs, and stopped her, and had her pressed against the banisters, without facing her once; of how she fingered his spinning wheel, curious about it, and at the sound of her question ('Why do you spin so much?') he'd lost his mind and took her on the floor; of how he'd touch her between thighs as she sat at the kitchen table in her nightdress, and she'd look at him darkly, and reach for him under the table, and they'd sit there, eyes locked and fingers moving, until a shudder would come over them; of how she'd lay naked on his bed, and he'd touch her nipples with the golden top of his cane, and she'd tremble with the cold and want, and how her eyes would close, and lips part, and he'd move the cane down, and touch her where she wanted, and she'd arch her back towards him. And every time he touched her, every time he'd moan and she'd ripple and tighten around him, he'd think: 'What if _she_ would have liked that, too?' And his memories and his shame and his grief would explode in him and multiply his lust, and there would be no stopping him. They say that sometimes when a man comes and comes, endlessly, there is no semen left in him and he starts coming with blood. He came and came, and he wondered if that would happen to him eventually. He wondered if he would bleed out for her, physically, as his heart bled for her.

There was no contradiction between his shame and his desire, his pain and his pleasure, his guilt and his abandonment; like snakes carved on ancient stones they bit each other's tails, entwined – they fed on each other. _That_ was the world in which he wanted to stay. That was the bloody and fleshy and lustful and terrible world, which he accepted as his own. This relentless deadly longing was his reality, the one he earned, the one he deserved, the one he hated and loved. He was a beast in love with his prey, and he devoured her even though he knew her to be poisoned. The thing he loved was killing him, and he was killing her, and the horror of it was sublime, and the joy of it final.

One would have thought that fate wouldn't make him pay for such a terrible happiness. But it did, and the moment he learned the price, it was over. Everything was over. As he stood there in the cold sun listening to the good ones announce his son's death and shamelessly asking his help in the same breath – was there nothing sacred for them? – he felt his mind clearing, and his world coming into focus. There was a glorious finality to this world – his failure was absolute. He did everything he could and destroyed everything he could for the sake of this one goal – finding his boy. And he lost him again. He was not cursed; he was _damned_. That was no fault of any curse, nor magic of any dagger. It was something in _him_ that did it. Everything he ever touched was soiled. These people. This town.

She.

They were worried, the good ones, they were afraid to die – they wanted him to save them. Didn't they realize? He was over, and everything was over with him. They were born because he made it possible, for goodness sake. It was not unfeeling of him to let them be destroyed now. It was an act of mercy. The world he created didn't have a right to exist.

Thus felt the Dark One as he looked into the cosmic vastness of magic he possessed but couldn't, ultimately, control. But an old man, a father who lost his only child, felt differently. He felt the weight of his humanity as he never felt it in his life. His body was centuries old, and now he suddenly felt his age. It took all his will, magical and human, not to collapse there, in front of the good ones. It took all his will to walk a relatively straight line as he felt their eyes on his back. As soon as he was out of their sight, he stopped, and leaned against the wall. The sea before him glinted in the sun. The air was fresh. He stood there for several minutes, watching the day blindly, not thinking, not even feeling the pain. There was nothing – his mind was empty. He was empty. Finished.

He closed his eyes, and saw a face – a face of a girl in a blue dress, smiling at him, her eyes full of wonder and love. _'Tell me about your son', she asked. 'I have lost him. There is nothing more to tell, really', he said._ How right he was. There really was nothing more to tell then. There was nothing more to tell now.

He should have let her change him, back then. He should have let her do it, and none of this would have happened. The boy would have been alive, even though far, far away from him. Far away from him is the best place for anyone he cares about. He should have let her change him, and they would have been happy. She would have been happy. She would have had a good life. And now she was gone, and she was going to die with him – all because of him, all because he did not trust her.

The thought of her made him move, again. He must see her. He must tell her… Yet what would he tell her? She wouldn't understand. She can't, because he has turned her into a soulless plaything, and used her, and dared to call it love. The way she is now, she'd try to comfort him in the way she knows best. She'd kiss him, and he would not be able to stand that.

He would never touch her again. Not after what he's done to her and with her.

He walked into his shop, and met her worried gaze; magic was happening, the earth trembled with it, and she was always aware of magic in the past, and was sensitive to it even now – perhaps that's why she accepted the truth about his powers so easily and so eagerly. He avoided her questions, and avoided her touch, and she gave him a startled, worried, hurt look. _Her_ look – that's how _she_ used to look at him, when he was snappish. He took her into his arms then; he embraced her and let her head rest on his shoulder. She has been through so much pain already; he wouldn't let her die rejected. What did his shame matter in the face of her discomfort?

When the dwarfs came to rummage the shop and one of them gave him the potion that might restore her memory, he had difficulty stifling hysterical laughter. Oh the final, the brilliant irony of that – he, the Dark One, was offered a cure for his true love, a cure distilled by the Fairies whom he hated by his very nature – by the very Fairy who took away his son! If ever he wanted a final proof of his failure that was it.

He had no intention to use the potion – none at all. He would not stoop so low. He always was a proud man… He was a proud man, and where did it take him?

He was talking to her of empty things, he was giving her a drink – heavens knew she had a right to one, now. She felt his distress, and she was trying so hard to please him, and he felt her love, and was touched by her feeble attempts to look brave, and he _pitied_ her so. And suddenly, for a moment, she looked so much like herself again that he couldn't stand it anymore. It was her, it was his Belle, with her magical eyes and her brave heart and her ability to accept and forgive and believe the best; how could he not see it in her before? Everything this girl did and felt towards him was the same that She felt and did. He once told her who she is, when she did not know it. How could he let his stupid magician's pride stand in the way of her knowing herself before she died? His magic ruined him. Now was the time to be human, and humble.

He restored the cup she broke, and wished his heart could be mended just as easily. He gave her the potion, and stood holding his breath, watching her change. And as she looked into his eyes, and knew him, it all came back. Their love flared in the room – the severed parts of the bond connected with an almost visible spark. And with it, the terrifying emptiness was gone – he was filled with pain, acute and physical, of everything that happened to him, today and ever. His unhappy childhood, his failed marriage, his failed fatherhood, his failed magic – his mutilated love. He failed in everything – he couldn't even die with dignity. But then he knew already that he couldn't die without her. He learned it here, in this very room, and he wept then as he wept now, for he felt her love then as he felt it now.

She came into his arms, she held him strongly; she was whispering something sweet. He pressed her to his heart and he let his tears flow into her hair. It did not matter what they said, it did not matter how long they could stay together; he did not mind the pain. The only thing that mattered now was that he held her in his embrace, and felt recalled to life.


	26. Chapter 26

26

'_You are a beautiful woman who loved an ugly man – really, really loved me. You find goodness in others, and when it is not there, you create it… So when you look in the mirror, and don't know who you are – that's who you are!..'_ His voice, breathless and strained over the phone line, voice of a dying man saying the last goodbye, leaving her all his immense love as a legacy to give her strength to survive alone in the world without him – that was what first came to her as she drunk the potion from her chipped cup, destroyed by her in despair and restored now by his magic. His voice, his words sounded in her mind while everything else was still blurred and distorted; and with them came the clarity, the knowledge of her true self. The woman who loves him; the woman he needs – that's who she is, whatever her name is. Funny, he never told her he loved her, not in the actual words, but it did not matter now: his love sounded in his dying voice, and it was blinding. She knew he'd give her anything, forgive her anything, share with her everything. She knew herself, and she knew him.

As she lifts up her eyes, she has a most curious series of visions; unlike the last time she was waking up in the forest by the wishing well, when the Queen's curse has lifted and she saw various things and scenes from her past, the only image that assaults her now is his face. His beloved face: his eyes, dark and flat and warm and caring, his thin carved nose, nostrils flaring; his lips, ever ready to twist in a grin or to droop in a resigned line; a face grotesque and beautiful, old and ageless, beastly and human. She sees his face as she first saw him, green and golden, with reptilian eyes holding her gaze; his face closed and unreadable as he watched her go around his castle; his face open and vulnerable as she hugged him in the woods; his face transformed with wonder as she leaned to kiss him; his face contorted with fury as he rejected her; his face cold and dead as he was sending her away; his face pale and shattered as he saw her enter his shop; his face crumpled with tenderness as he promised to protect her; his face sad and withdrawn as he tried to let her go; his face alight with longing and stained with tears as he possessed her; his face questioning her presence in his life; his face pained as he told her the truth about himself; his face open to hope as she looked at him across the border; his face stricken with pain as she rejected him in the hospital; his face hopeful as she promised to let him help her, and touched his hand; his face devastated as he saw her under another curse; his face dark with shame and pain and desire as he loved her even when she was not herself. These faces, which she saw so clearly now, told the story of their love, love that always found a way to bind them, even in the weirdest circumstances. This love obliterated all doubts; it knew no shame.

This love gives her strength to face him, and when she does, she feels a pang of great fear. He has changed terribly. He looks a thousand years old – his eyes are eternal in their darkness, even the tears cannot soften them. She remembers how the look of complete desolation would come over him sometimes in the past, and how he would search for something in himself, and this something, unknown to her then, would help him pick himself up. This something is gone now. His strength is gone. And, as she now knows what had driven him trough all these years, she guesses the reason, and shudders for him.

'You have lost your son', she says, and it is not a question.

He doesn't even nod – a flicker of his eyelids tells her that she is right.

There are no words she can say that would mean anything now, or change anything, or help in any way. But no words are needed; she just holds him, as tightly as she can, wishing her warmth to penetrate the ice of despair that encrusts his body, her fingers stroking the hair on the back of his head, as if he were a child; she just listens to his sobbing voice telling of failure, and whispers helplessly that she is sorry, thought she doesn't even know what she is sorry for. For his loss? For not being there for him when he needed her? He says he is sorry for waking her up to die, and she doesn't quite understand him. What does it matter to her if she dies or not, as long as she is with him? How could he die without her, and how could he doubt that she'd want to be with him when she died? She even feels relieved. There is no need to do anything now, to fight or to prove anything. There is finality to what's happening, a sublime justice, and wonderful certainty. The only thing she has to do, as the earth shudders with waves of dark destructive magic, is to hold him to her heart and let him know that she is with him – now and forever.

Forever doesn't need to be a long time: it can be lived in a second, if this second is filled with meaning and purpose and love. Forever is when their lips touch their tears. Forever is when they are together. That is how she feels as they embrace, that is how she feels as they sit on the floor, holding hands, his fingers entwined with hers, giving them a gentle squeeze from time to time. She feels suspended in time; his touch is the only thing real to her, even though this touch is strangely… fleshless. His soul, deadly tired and slipping towards final peace, is touching her, not his body; but it is not a bad thing. Their bodies had their share of touching in the last few days. Now is the time for their souls to touch each other.

And then the shuttering of the world stops, all of a sudden. She looks up at him, searchingly. His face is drawn and grey. He closes his eyes in a very tired way and says softly: 'They have stopped the curse. You are safe now. You are not going to die'.

She nods, silently noting his choice of words. '_You_ are not going to die', he says. Not 'we'. She needs to pick this subject up, but she knows he is not ready, so she just asks with a glimmer of her usual curiosity: 'How do you know?'

He shows her a shadow of his twisted smile and taps his temple: 'I just know'. And then he gives a rugged breath, as if stifling a sob, and shuts his closed eyes even tighter, as if trying to lock tears inside his eyelids. He must be thinking of his magic, she guesses: magic lets him know what happens in the world, his magic that is so great and powerful, yet so helpless in the face of his loss. His magic failed him when he needed it most; it must feel like such a burden now, such a sneer of fate. He probably hates it now. And this is wrong: his magic is part of him, and he should not hate any part of himself; not when she loves him so. She needs to do something to make him feel better; to make him feel anything else but pain. She cannot stand the sight of him, sitting on the floor like that, with eyes closed, defeated.

She needs to at least distract him with something, so she says: 'Can't we go out now? I want to see what happened to the town. And I want a breath of fresh air…' She indicates the table with unfinished drinks vaguely, and knows her words to be true: the other girl she has been just moments ago was not entirely sober when things started happening.

'Of course'. He nods, and stands up heavily, leaning on his cane with one hand and on the counter with the other.

It _pains_ her so to see him so… frail.

'I think I will need to… change', she gives herself a look over.

He nods, again. 'Your things are in the closet in the backroom. I kept them in case…' He pauses, painfully. 'Well, in case you came back'.

She goes to the closet he indicated, and opens it. The pretty dresses that he gave her when she first came back – they are all here, and somehow the picture of them hanging there in such forlorn order makes her think of closets of dead people, which their survived relatives can't clean for months, unable to make themselves let go of memories. Her father kept her mother's dresses for years – she used to be so scared of that closet when she was a little girl; she thought it was filled with ghosts. She picks one of her old dresses, and hastily puts it on, trying not to think of how her vulgar nail varnish clashes with the elegant fabric.

God, what horror he must have lived through while she did not remember herself. How lost and lonely he must have felt. How horrible her change must have been for him; and yet how bravely he faced it, and how valiantly he did everything he could so that they could be together still. He accepted her even though she pained him. He changed for her, just as he always changed for her. When she wanted light in him, he strove to give her light. When she wanted darkness, he gave her darkness. She once asked him to let her in, and he really did everything he could to accommodate her in his world, whoever she was. Well, at least he knows now that she would always love him, whatever happened to her. He knows now that she'd love him even if she wasn't in her right mind. And because of that, she would never regret what happened – she'd never regret the abandonment and the dark fall they lived through. It was still about them; she always knew that two girls lived in her, just as two men lived in him. The dreamer and the practical girl, she used to call them mentally; the one who aspired to things and the one who lived in the material world. And, even though the material girl proved to be a little bit too down-to-earth, she knew now that both were needed to be _her_; they were inseparable, just as both the man and the beast were inseparable in him.

If only she could find a way to wake him from his despair. If only she could find a way to ease his pain without destroying him, now that she sees him so clearly.

She feels like crying, and checks herself sternly. Now is not the time to cry, and to lean on him for support. She is the one who must be strong now.

She goes to the hand-basin he has installed in the back room, and splashes her face with water. She picks a brush and rearranges her hair. She wants to look decent.

She wants to look like herself.

They go out of the shop, and walk the town. She slips her hand under his arm, cuddling closer to him, as she used to, and he gives her a fleeting, grateful look. It seems he is grateful for her attempts to behave normally, though they feel so weird. Nothing is normal in the world they face; it did survive, but nothing in it is the same. The sun shines, the sea is bright and the wind crisp, but all that has an eerie edge to it. Great magic happened here today, and it always leaves a trace – just as it always has a price.

They go to the port, and find awful commotion there, and learn that the boy, his grandson, has been kidnapped. She feels him freeze at her side at the news, and shudders, inwardly. She did think that she would not regret anything that happened between them, and she meant it, but there is an exception. Her urging him to destroy the boy she'd never accept in herself; not just because of the horror of the very thought, but also because it showed how weak and helpless and selfish she was. She clung to him so, she was so afraid to lose him and so eager to keep him for herself that she was ready to urge him to do the unthinkable – to commit a crime darker than anything he ever did. There would have been no going back from that. She would have ruined him, beyond redemption – all because she was selfish and afraid!

She is thinking about that as she listens to all the good people in town making plans for saving the boy – he with them. The guilt at her selfishness is paramount in her mind as they all prepare to board the ship of a pirate who once tried to kill her – of a pirate who destroyed her memories; his mortal enemy, now ready to help too. She has to redeem her weakness, somehow. She needs to be at his side and help him, as well as she can. She knows she is strong enough for that.

And then he turns to her, with a heavy sigh, and says: 'I must go away now, Belle. And you… You must stay here'.

'What? Why?..' Will this man ever seize to startle her?

And then he explains, carefully, that she is needed here – she is the only person whom he can trust with protecting the town, it seems. He gives her the spell to perform, and she is surprised: why does he think she will be able to do it? She is not magical. And then she thinks, fearfully, of the curious fact that he had the spell ready and with him. Why is he prepared for this turn of events? Did he know what was going to happen? He sees the future; did he know he was going to go away and leave her behind?

And then, as the full meaning of casting the cloaking spell, hiding the town, hits her, she voices her gravest question. 'You are not coming back, are you?'

She barely listens to his words as he explains his need to sacrifice himself for the noble task. Her heart is screaming. Oh, she knew it, she knew it all along ever since the moment she saw his grey, washed-out face there in the shop when he woke her up. He doesn't want to live. He did not simply accept that he's going to die – he is going to seek death. His loss means more to him than she does. He sends her away, again, but this separation is going to be final.

She cannot face it. She cannot agree with that. They love each other, and it matters; love cannot be always defeated; she cannot be forever abandoned.

She must stop him. She cannot live without him. She cannot be alone, again.

She looks into her soul, and sees the dark desert it is without him. She cannot go back there alone; she cannot stay there alone, loving him and not finding him, forever.

Yet she cannot stop him, because trying to stop him now would be the act of the same selfishness and cowardice that the other, weak girl succumbed to. Stopping him now would mean blocking his way to saving himself; keeping him with her would destroy him…

But these are just thoughts, and they are good and right, but they are not the main reason for her inaction. The real reason that she cannot stop him now is that she cannot really reach him – again. His guilt and his readiness to die separate him from her; just as in his castle, when he was sending her away, something stands between them, making him untouchable to the full force of her love. Ah, it hurts so! It feels so unjust. Yet she cannot be offended – not this time. She cannot argue; he is right, he needs to go…

If only she could find a way to hold him – to bind him to her, somehow. She needs to find something, or to do something that would overcome death, for which he is so eager.

She remembers how, as she was leaving then, she told him he'd regret his decision forever, and his life would be nothing without her – just an empty heart, and a chipped cup. She thought these were just words – angry words of a hurt girl – back then. But it worked, somehow – it made their bond stronger, and look how important it made this cup for him.

All her love is gathered in her words as a hand in a fist as she tells him, looking into his eyes, gripping his shoulders: 'I _will_ see you again'.

Something happens – something stirs in the air as she says the words. Some ripple comes across the world – subtle, but unmistakable. Magic is happening. And, wishing to make it stronger, wishing love to be omnipotent, wishing it with all the foolish force of her foolish ravaged heart, she reaches to kiss him. Let the good ones look at them now. Let them be amazed at the strange girl who loves a monster. They shunned him, always. They despised him, always, even as they asked for his help. Her, they seemed to accept as one of their own. Yet she was always an odd one, never a part of the crowd. She was always an outcast, and she doesn't really belong with them, all these heroes. She belongs with him.

Let them see how the Dark One is loved. Let them see the man he is, for her.

Let _him_ see who he is, for her.

As she kisses him, sobbing, in front of all astounded eyes, she sees or feels nothing but his lips, salty with their tears, his warmth, his catching breath. She hears nothing but his voice in her head. _'That's who you are!' he said._ 'That's who _you_ are', she tells him silently.

And then something changes – really changes – in the world. Great wave of magic, unseen to everyone but to him and to her crashes them, breaking the wall of ice around him. She can almost see the shards falling down. And she feels it again – the power to reach him, the power to change him, the power to help him. Their bond used to be a thin tread tugging at their hearts and glowing in the dark, stubbornly, all these years. It is a flow of light now, so wide and bright that it doesn't connect them – it envelops them.

He feels it, too – of course he does. As they press their foreheads together and look into each other's eyes, there are so many things in his gaze. Regret for everything that happened. Joy at everything that happened. Acceptance of their fate, as they shape it. He is exasperated at her stubbornness, and grateful for it. He is still in pain, he still thinks that he knows what will happen to them, but there is a glimmer of hope; he is ready to believe her. He wants to believe her, even though he cannot, yet. There is love in his eyes, and it is not hopeless anymore. He _feels_ her love, and knows its' power, and he has his strength back. He is humbled, but not defeated.

She can let him go, now. She can let him go, for they will be together, even though separated by space and time. She can let him go, with all his pain and guilt, for she knows she can always reach him. They will always be connected. She would bring him back, if needs be – she would call to him and he will hear her voice. Their hearts would beat as one, and even if his stops, hers will make him go on.

She turns and walks away from him, willing herself not to cry, not to make things harder for him by showing how much she hurts. There will be time to cry later, when she is alone – when she realizes just how completely alone she is.

She knows he is watching her, as she goes, she hears his sigh as he comes aboard. She knows everything that is happening to him; it is as if they have a joined mind or a single heart between them two.

At a distance, she stops and turns around to see the harbor. The ship had started sailing; the magic bean was thrown into the waves, and the huge vortex is ready to swallow the ship. Her heart skips a beat as the ship disappears under the waves, taking him into a different world, and waters go still. For a second, her world is empty.

And then she feels it again – the light of their love, strong, stubborn, insistent, connecting them beyond any borders. She is smiling as her eyes fill with tears.

He's with her now, as she is with him. She will wait for him when he returns, as she promised him on the city border. He'll come back. She will _bring_ him back.

She will see him again.

6


	27. Chapter 27

27

Darkness beckoned him.

Even as he stood on the sunlit pier in the middle of the crisply and bitterly bright day, even as he looked into the shining, hopeful sky-blue eyes of the girl he loved; even as his eyes watered at the blinding glow of their renewed bond, unrestricted by any of his self-imposed curses now – even then he felt it, this horrible shadow looming behind his back. Shapeless and misty, it swirled behind him like some menacing fog, creeping slowly closer, tentatively reaching its' tentacles to touch his shoulder, and then to back away before he turned and caught a glimpse of it. Even as he stared directly in front of him, unwilling to take his eyes off Belle's retreating back after she bid him her tearful farewell – oh, how her shoulders sagged, though she tried to walk resolutely; oh, how clearly he saw the effort it took her to make each step look firm – how he ached for her, how much he wanted to catch up with her, turn her back, kiss her, and never let her go… Even as he stared at her, unblinking, unwilling to lose a single moment while he still could see her – even then the darkness was there, by his side, lurking at the corner of his eye, wanting to take over, to obscure everything; to steal from him this last, small consolation – the last look at the woman he loved, and would never see again.

The farther she walked away from him, the stronger he felt the darkness, breathing its' damp and cold and poisonous breath on his back, sending a shiver down his spine. As he stepped upon the deck of the ship and was forced to take his eyes off her, to seemingly concentrate on people around him, on tasks at hand, his mind was elsewhere: he was already facing the darkness. It still was not complete; thick gloom surrounding him was still illuminated with something from within. The light of their love, the lifeline of their bond glowed in the mist, rather like the lights of a lonely car looming through the damp fog during a night ride across abandoned roads.

Their love that was so strong and stubborn. Love that she believed in so blindly. Love that was supposed to overcome everything yet failed and tortured them on every turn. So powerful, and so futile. It refused to let go. It called to him, made stronger by the parting words that Belle spoke to him. _'I will see you again'_. She put a spell on him at their parting, just as she did many years ago in his castle, cursing him into eternal dependence upon her small chipped cup. He wondered if she saw the resemblance of these two scenes, if she understood the bitter irony of it all. He abandoned her out of selfishness and cowardice then, yet her spell, meant to wreck him, actually made him stronger, for it gave him a symbol of his love to hold on to in the harshest times. He abandoned her for a noble and selfless cause now, yet her spell, meant to give him hope, actually brought him despair, for it filled his parting with life with agony.

It would have been so much easier to die if there was no love. It would have been so much easier to die, to slip into darkness and peace, if he had nothing to lose. He had lost his son; he had no will and no purpose to live; death would have been easy – painless; a deliverance. Yet nothing in his life ever came easy or painless to him. And the fact that She, the girl that always brought him light and hope, by loving him so strongly robbed him of the painless death made him laugh bitterly as he sat in the cabin below deck, having escaped the bickering and the tension between members of their ill-assorted expedition.

The worried face of Snow White, the mindless heroics of her husband, Regina's heartbreaking fear for her boy, suppressed flirting between Emma and her pirate – he could not stand all that. All these emotions were eating away at him, wearing him off, and it took him enormous effort of will to stop himself from snarling at them: 'You don't have to do anything – you don't even have to go unto the cursed island. You will do nothing to help the boy – you cannot save him. The only thing that needs to be done, the only thing that would save him is me facing my past and dying. The rest of you are just a dead weight. Forgive the pun!' But that, of course, would not do. He would have to explain too many things, to reveal too many secrets. It would waste him, and distract him, and weaken his resolve. So he did not snarl at them – he hadn't said a single word to them. He found himself a place for solitude; he sat in the corner in the dark cabin, closed his eyes, and placed his hands on the top of his cane. To any observer he would have appeared sleeping, albeit uncomfortably, or in deep prayer.

He looked reposed. Yet inside he was screaming with pain.

Inside, he was living his life through, over and over again, thinking of the mistakes he made, of the guilt he carried; of betrayals, of hurt. Of love. He was thinking of the first moment when he saw his boy, and held him in his arms, his heart going out towards the babe, changing forever. He was thinking of the first moment when he saw Belle, defiant, beautiful, shining; of all the hopes and fears and trills he felt then. He was thinking of the things he did wrong – thousands of them. He was thinking of all the things he did right; not so many of them, and each one precious. He was thinking of her warm, soft lips, salty with tears. Of her eyes, holding him to her. Of the silkiness of her hair under his touch. He was thinking of her heart, given to him for better and worse; the 'better' never came, the 'worse' was the only thing left to them. 'I will see you again', she said. Oh sweet, sweet, naïve and wonderful girl… Why doesn't she know her power, why doesn't she ever realize the force that her every word carries? She could have phrased it in so many different ways, that spell she used to bind him to her. She could have said that he will come back, that they will see each other, that they will be together. But no; she used a phrase that did not involve him into her well-wishing. She will see him again, he had no doubt of that – magic happened when she said the words, so they will come to pass. She will see him again – it is just that he will not see her, for he will be dead.

Why, oh way does she have to love him so? Why is her love so powerful so as to break all his defenses, leave him open and naked at the face of inevitable end, bringing on new pain, the kind of which he never felt before? He felt the pain of loss and betrayal. He felt the pain of loneliness and isolation. Yet now, when she loved him fully, as he loved her, came a pain that was new to him: the pain that he would inflict on her by dying. The pain _she_ would feel when he would be gone.

He never knew what a terrible burden it is to be loved; what a responsibility. Our very existence is a blessing and a curse for people who love us. We exist, and sometimes it is enough, even in separation. We perish, and there is nothing that can fill the void. He knew how he felt when he lost her – when he lost Bae. Imagine, just imagine her feeling the same pain and desolation, as he would lay dead in her arms.

He shuddered, his eyes still closed.

Yet it will come to pass: he will die, and she will see him dead, for she herself willed it.

He sat in silence, unaware of the tears slowly trickling down his cheeks, escaping closed eyelids. He heard nothing; his mind was closed to the outside world, yet open to the deep pit of despair; he felt nothing other than the softness of her lips, and the agony of her loss. The glow of her love rested on his palm, resisting the darkness, and instead of bringing hope and relief the small flame scorched his skin, burning him to the bone.

And all around him the darkness was gathering, getting deeper and deeper the farther they went into the magic waters, the closer they got to the cursed domain of his cursed father. The land ruled by shadows, the land of eternal night. It was so strange to contemplate that this island used to be a place of sunlight and fun, a place children dreamed of as paradise of happy oblivion. When he first came here, as a little boy, it was light and it felt warm, despite the clouded sky. What soiled this place? Were that perhaps his own bitter tears, the tears that he shed as he sat there alone, having lost his father and feeling completely alone in the world? Or was it the extreme horror his childish heart felt as he was ultimately betrayed by this father, dragged away from him by the terrible Shadow, growing old and wise in an instant – the very same instant that his father changed into a child in front of his eyes? His childhood ended here, on this island – at the age of six he became an old man, bitter and lonely. His father's eternal childhood started here, and as he lived through his many, many endlessly careless years, the place grew darker and darker. He looked at it, sometimes, through his crystal ball; the sun never rose over magical woods and sandy shores. His father never changed as he himself grew up and started aging; and, as he himself got caught in the trap of immortality brought on by his dark powers, their lives suddenly felt… balanced. They were equals and opposites, parts of the whole: a father eternally unnaturally young, a son eternally unnaturally old. They were bonded together by something much, much stronger than blood; they were bonded by magic.

That was why, when the Seer told him of the young boy that would be his undoing, he needed not to look into the future to see who that boy was. It was a weakness, a mere distraction of the mind to entertain a thought that it might be his grandson. He knew, deep in his heart, exactly who that 'boy' will be.

His father.

He had a vision of them, embracing, disappearing into the darkness together.

He knew that the only way to defeat his father is to kill him. No tricks will do; he'd find no loopholes. He who loves nothing but himself cannot be destroyed by anything other than himself. His father's only weakness lay in the price he paid for his youth. That price was his son's ruined, botched life, and that life was the only thing that held him in the world; extinguish it, and Pan would perish. Just as simple as that.

His father loves nothing. He has nothing to lose.

His father's death will be painless.

His would not. He will die flooded with pain of the girl who loves him – feeling her die with him. Just as simple as that.

He suddenly feels very cold, and opens his eyes. Something in the world changed – the ship stopped moving, and everything around is filled with unnatural calm.

The darkness is not just behind him now – it is all around him, but holding its' distance. Waiting, ready to pounce at the slightest sign of weakness.

They have arrived.

His father is waiting for him. His fate is waiting for him.

He looks himself over and notices that his clothes have changed – he is dressed into the sort of garment he used to wear in the Enchanted Forest, and the time when he first met Her… At the thought of her, the darkness stirs, and he quenches the image of her smiling face; don't, don't think of her – through your longing and fear the darkness will invade your soul, and destroy you, he tells himself.

He gives a wry smile, noting that the garment he wears is black. Did he wish it so? Or is it a sign of darkness literally clinging to his skin?

He walks up the deck, realizing along the way that he doesn't need his cane any more: of course not, they are in the land of magic. He ignores the stares and the protestations of the rest of the 'team'. He has no need of them; no one really needs spectators to one's death.

He leaves them to their fears and troubles.

He steps ashore through the air, treading darkness as if it were solid matter.

Finally, he is alone, and ready to face it, and darkness starts shifting again – not just as a mist or a fog, as before; there is conscience behind the movement, darkness rearranges itself, wishing to greet him.

Standing on the windswept sand, he suddenly finds himself looking into the huge, dark, looming image of his father's youthful face – smiling at him. And the light of Belle's love, which still manages to penetrate the gloom, is transformed into a gleam in the darkness's eyes.

And then the face is gone, and he is alone with the wind, the whisper of the trees, and the sound of children weeping in the stillness on the night; and amongst their voices he seems to recognize his own.


	28. Chapter 28

28

The brightness and crisp freshness of the day, the blinding cold sunlight, the stinging wind at the waterfront. The straining of her eyesight, the wish to see through the waves under which the ship disappeared. The straining of her heart, the effort to connect it with the heart of the man that is gone into a different world. The panicked, frenzied voices of people around her. The rush towards the mines. The astonishment at the reading instructions for the spell he left, the realization that he wished her to enact it. The weight of worried looks, the expectant eyes turned upon her by people who depended on her to protect them. The pang of terror, the doubt – she cannot do it, how can she, she has no magic, why did he think that she does? The brief memory of his face, sad and wise, his soft words: _'I just know'_. The sudden relief; of course he knew she can do this spell, he knows everything about magic and about her. The concentration required to perform the spell – the need to give her mind and heart to something that she wants to protect – to something that she loves. Easiest thing in the world, that: she just pictures his face, the look of love in his melancholy eyes, and instantly her soul fills with tenderness and longing and faith and hope, and his eyes seem to smile at her, gently, and she almost feels his soft touch – his fingertips on her cheek… People around her give a cheer – the spell worked. She did it. She did well – she did not let them down.

She did not let _him_ down.

Well, there are two ways to look at that. She did what he wished of her, she performed a small and, as it happened, easy technical task. In that sense, she definitely helped him.

Yet she let him go to a faraway land to die alone.

She failed him, dismally.

All her love, all her stubborn belief in them, all her promises to fight for him – all that came to nothing. She was not there for him when he needed her; she could not even remember him on her own, without magical potions drank from enchanted cups! Just how weak and pitiful was that? All these hopes, all these tears, all these childish well-wishing convictions – and still he was snatched from her, yet again, and still he was left alone with his sorrows and pain. Still she cannot help him to face his biggest ordeal. Yes, she managed to break through his defenses, she made him believe in their love, she made it glow stronger then ever. Yet will in help him, when he is there, far away from her, fighting the shadowy evil? Or will it just bring him more pain – will it burden him with regrets for her, with compassion to her plight; will it distract him from his task with wishing to return to her?

Women must not hold back soldiers that come into battle; women must look at them proudly, with dry eyes, showing belief in their courage, so that fighting warriors would not be upset by the memory of tear-stained faces of the loved ones they left behind. Women must not cry 'I love you!' to their retreating backs: the memory of love can destroy courage. She knows these things – she learned them long ago, growing up in the military castle. Yet she also knows that in battle the faith in woman's love could be the only thing that can sustain man's courage. Man must know of the woman's love for him, but not of her pain at being abandoned.

How do women reconcile these things? How do you inspire courage without showing your loss? How can a man go and fight knowing that his death will be yours? Yet how can you let him go without letting him know just how immense your love is?

She does not know if she did this right. She can only hope she did.

Another hopeless hope to sustain. She is a true master of the art of hoping.

People of the town are grateful to her; they give her hugs, they slap her shoulder, they clasp her hand, they smile encouragingly. Granny gives her a rare compassionate look, and offers to take her into the café for a drink and a chat. Doctor Hopper is eager to give her some helpful words. The dwarfs are ready to keep her company. She is grateful, she smiles, but she declines all offers with quiet politeness also learned in the past – at the time when she was a princess.

She cannot be around these happy people – she cannot stand their good mood. She needs to be left alone. She speaks the phrase, mentally, and is chilled by the turn of thought: she needs to be left alone, to try and come to terms with the fact that she is _alone _now. That he is gone.

She needs time and space to herself to realize just how timeless and empty her world is.

She walks back through the town, blind to the sunlight. All her efforts are directed at walking with firm assurance; back straight, head held high. The door to his shop is in sight – it is very close. Just a hundred more feet; just a couple more steps.

Soon, very soon there will be no one to witness her grief, her pain, her weakness.

She pushes at the door with trembling fingers, and hears a gentle sound of the bell as it opens. She walks in, and shuts the door.

The shop is quiet and dark; a single ray of sunlight breaks through the blinds. Dust dances in it, as it always does.

She stands with her back pressed to the door, listening to the silence of the place.

She is alone, at last.

She is alone.

Alone.

He is gone.

The reality of his absence hits her like a dead weight – it comes from all sides, crushing her brittle confidence, deflating all her hopes, wiping away the exultation of that moment on the pier when she broke through to him and fully believed that her love has the power to hold him safe; her knees buckle, and she slowly slips down onto the floor, her back resting against the door, her eyes staring at the familiar room, this room where everything is his and is _him_, but seeing only the emptiness.

He is gone.

She will never see him again. Oh yes, she told him that she will, and she told herself, but in her heart of hearts she knows something is wrong with that. Some magic happened when she said the words, but there is an odd feeling about it.

He always told her, always stressed how important small nuances of every thing were, how many things depended on fine points of every deal. She accused him once of playing words and people alike, but she knew he was right. Words _were_ important.

And she just said the wrong words.

He is gone to die, and she cannot help him. She will see him again – that's how magic works, but God knows just _how_ she will see him.

She sees a flash of an image, silly and naïve and crushingly tragic, like an illustration from one of her childish books about knights and princesses, an image of him in a casket, face cold and lifeless, eyes closed, lips set, skin pale as wax, hands folded on his chest, and of herself, the bereft princess, leaning to kiss his unmoving lips, dropping tears on his eyelids, touching his hair, _seeing_ him for the last time.

A loud, hysterical sob escapes her lips, and she covers her face with hands. Oh, what a fool, what a silly romantic she is! 'You read too many books, dearie', he told her once. How right he was.

Will his companions bring his body back to her if he dies? Will any of them think of that – will any of them care for him, and for her, enough to remember about them among other troubles? She doubts it. They will have other, more important things to do then to remember that the Dark One is loved, and missed, and, for her, irreplaceable.

There is no need and no point to hold a brave face now, when she is alone – she can cry all she wants, no one will notice or care. So she cries – bitterly, loudly, sobbing, just as she did in his castle when she wanted to attract his attention, only this time her despair is real, and he will not rush into the room screaming that 'This crying must stop'. She had lost him before, she spent years away from him, with no real hope of reunion, and she never felt such grief – such heart-breaking loss – her pain was never so strong as to crush her chest and to rake her entire body. Was that because she was younger and naïve and believed in happy endings? Was that because back then he was just an idea to her – just a promise of happiness, and now she _knew_ this happiness, and lost it? He was real now, so very real, he was warm and loving and sad and difficult, and he touched her and kissed her, just an hour ago, she could still taste his lips, they made love, this very morning, while she was still not herself, and then he left her, saying he has some business in town, and kissed her swollen lips, and said 'Rest some more, sleepy-head, we'll meet at the shop later', and she held her hand against his cheek, and he smiled sadly, and kissed her palm, and she did not know what made him sad, for she was not herself yet, so she just let him go, and snuggled deeper into their bed, pressing her face to his pillow, breathing in his smell, and took her time going to the shower, wishing that his smell and touch and the sweat of their love-making would cling to her skin that much longer, touching the sticky dampness on her loins with a smile of contentment and mischief, why, o why did she go to the stupid shower, she might have still had a part of him on her body?..

She is not just sobbing now – she howls, like an animal in pain, arms wrapped around herself, clutching her own shoulders, trying to fight unearthly coldness that came upon her now, when she knows he will never embrace her again.

She cries till her throat is sore and her head starts aching.

'_This crying – it must stop, Belle… This crying must stop…'_

He'd never speak to her again. She would never hear his voice. His giggle. His snarls. The catching of his breath as he spoke her name.

She feels completely exhausted – spent. Empty. Like this shop. Like her life without him.

Finally, slowly, with a lot of effort, as if she were an old woman, she makes herself stand up from the floor. The light in the room changed – a long time must have passed. She straightens her skirt, which became very crumpled, takes a tentative step across the floor, and then kicks off her shoes: he loved when she wore high hills, but she cannot move on them now – she will simply fall, her legs barely hold her. Barefoot, she walks slowly into the back room; she needs to wash her face.

Their unfinished drinks and Bae's scarf are still on the table. Her cup, still with the dregs of memory potion in it. His glass, untouched. She will have to clean these things – he would have hated the mess if he saw it. But she can do it later.

Her eyes move to his camp bed – the bed on which she slept on the first day of her return, just after the curse broke; the bed on which they first made love. Her heart clenches, and she makes herself look away. She cannot think about it now, she will just collapse again, and he would not want that. He would want her to be strong and smiling and happy. He would not need to see her tears to know how much she loves him. He _knows_ how much she loves him, and would know it till his dying moment. That much she achieved, at least.

She walks to the sink, and looks at herself in the mirror. She looks awful – hair undone, eyes puffy and red, cheeks feverish, lips bitten. He would not have liked that, either – he would have been upset by that. 'My beautiful Belle', he called her, acknowledging that her beauty is important to him – she liked the honesty of that. She opens the tap with cold water and spends a long time washing her face, and then smoothing her hair.

While she does that, a new resolution forms in her head.

She must look, act and behave as if he is coming back any moment now. She must not upset him, in any way – not with her tears, not with mess on the table, not with her sorrow. She let him go wishing that he carried the knowledge of her love with him. She must stay here and wait for him, despite all her forebodings, sustained with the knowledge of his love for her. This is how these things work – you have to trust each other; you have to believe the best, and you have to do your best to make-believe that the person you miss is here, with you.

She will not bring up the image of the deserted land that her life if without him. She would avert her eyes from darkness. She will look into her heart, instead, and see the light of love that now connects them so strongly, she will fight the coldness with its' warm glow.

She will stay here, in the shop. There is no point leaving it, going back to the house; she might drop there tomorrow for some fresh clothes, but for now she has all that she needs right here. She will stay in the shop, because the shop is his place – he will come here when he comes back; and he will come back – she will have to believe it. She believed in so many impossible things throughout her life that she'd manage to believe in that, too.

She notices that her hands are clenched into fists, nails digging into palms. There is dull pain in her chest, and she knows it will never go now, but she can live with that. That pain is also a sign of his continuing presence in her life, and she would not want it to stop, ever.

Behind the window, dusk descends upon the town – it is getting late. She feels incredibly, deadly tired: it has been a long day. She should just rest now – she should get some sleep. In the morning, she will see things clearer. In the morning, she will clean the table, and open the shop. He would want her to.

He would want her to carry on for him.

She sits on the bed, and runs her hand across the pillow, then picks it up and brings it to her face, inhaling. She can smell him – he spent so many nights here that his smell lingers even though the pillow-cover is clean.

She closes her eyes and sits there for a long time, embracing the pillow, not thinking much, just calming down. Then she lays down on her side, still holding the pillow, and curls into a ball, as she did when she was a little girl.

She can almost feel his hand, stroking her hair and forehead. Behind her closed eyelids she can see his face, smiling a little smile, looking at her with love and gentleness, making her feel at once a woman he cherishes and a child he protects.

Silly, silly girl, to give herself in to despair so deeply, thinking she'd never see him again. She will see him again. She will, she will, she will…

She can see him any moment if she just looks into her heart: that's where he lives, and that's where he will live, forever.

She drifts into deep, exhausted slumber, and the only snippet of a dream that visits her is an image of his weary and sad face, and of her hand reaching to touch his cheek


	29. Chapter 29

29

He is failing his task.

Perhaps he has overestimated himself: his resolve, his willingness to do the right thing, his magical power and ability to fight his father's mind-games, and simply his physical strength. He is exhausted, out of breath, he is losing concentration all the time; sometimes his mind seems to go blank, as if switched off, he is not thinking, he is just reacting to sounds and tricks of light around him. Sometimes he is barely able to move, as if physically oppressed by the heavy, damp and hot darkness that rules the island. His mind and body must be reacting to the strain and speediness of recent events: after centuries of waiting for things to happen, he was assaulted by so many things at once. The breaking of the curse, Belle's return, the consummation of their love, her memory loss, his traveling to New York, finding his son, being attacked, being close to death, finding Belle again, in her dark incarnation, the mad abandonment of their time together, losing his son again, and losing Belle again – forever this time; losing her along with his life. So many things, and they happened so fast – in a matter of weeks, really. He was dying in the back room of his shop just several days ago – and here he is, destined to die, again.

He is an old man. He is not up to such quick changes; the adrenalin rush can only take you so far, and when it ebbs away, you are left failing to perform – weaker then you were before. That must be what is happening to him.

So many excuses, so many clever words to mask just one truth: he overestimated his readiness to die.

He is not ready. He still clings to so many things: his wish to redeem and explain himself; his need to say the right words to the right people; unfinished conversations, unsaid truths, things left undone; love unfulfilled. He did not bury his son and, despite the pain the very thought of him brings, he cannot think of him as if he were dead. Not yet. Perhaps he is in denial, but he does not _feel_ that his boy is gone – he seems to be still here, in the same world.

He is certain that if Bae were indeed dead, he would know it in his bones; even if he'd leave all parental wistful thinking aside, that's how blood magic works. If his son were dead, he would feel dead himself. Yet he is not dead yet, and not ready.

He never told the boy everything he must tell him. How can he die without telling him?..

He never told Belle how much he loves her.

He never reconciled himself with himself, and now he, as he knows himself, must disappear – must seize to be, gone without a trace, without knowing his own heart and sharing it with others.

Ah, but it is not true. There is a person in the world who knows his true self, much better then he ever did or has a chance of knowing. _She_ knows him the way he really is – she knows what's in his heart.

That is why, while he blindly stumbles across the island looking for answers that could only be found inside his soul, She comes to him, trying to guide him – trying to help him to face his end. And he knows, being the greatest wizard in all the lands and knowing every kind of magic worth knowing, that it is not really her – it is just the darkness, which had found a way to invade his mind, manifesting itself in the loveliest form he can imagine. It is not Her – it's his father and his deadly childish pranks; his cruel joy in finding the only thing that really matters to a man's soul, and abusing it.

Yes, being the greatest dark wizard ever he knows darkness even as he looks into her beguilingly gentle eyes, even as she speaks to him in her lovely voice, lulling him into deadly slumber. Yet, being a mere human, crushed by his loss and loneliness, he does not resist the darkness. He does not banish it from his presence – he even welcomes it.

He needs to see her face, even if it is just a trick of light. He needs to hear her voice, even if it is just a whisper of the wind. He needs to feel her warm touch on his cheek, even if he knows her hand would stab him as soon as caress him.

He needs it, this brief illusion, this momentary blindness, this spark of bitter joy that possesses him every time the doppelganger appears by his side, and he sees her gentle face. This second of self-delusion, this self-cheating silent cry – 'It is her!' – he needs them to go on.

He wants to be with her when he dies – it is as simple as that; always has been, always will be. And such is his need that he doesn't care that it is not really her. An illusion will do. So what if his path to death is made easier by an illusion? His death itself will be real enough.

His father thinks he duped him, that his attention is slipping. It is not so. His father, thinking himself the wisest of men, just because he knows what people dream about and rules their imagination, his father, with all his centuries of life and experience, is just a silly boy, really. He never grew up, even when he was an old man; and, trading his son for eternal youth, he cheated himself out of the chance to grow and learn. His are the cleverness and experience of evil; the wisdom and understanding of kindness are unknown to him. He knows no love and no loss; he knows no forgiveness and compassion; so, try as he might, he could never, never show him a truly convincing image of his beloved, a girl whose whole being _is_ love, loss, and compassion.

Belle would never tell him things his father's dark messenger tells him. The need to be strong, the need to be good, the need to do the right thing – yes, that is what she'd say, all right. But one thing is wrong, and it sets everything off.

Belle, real Belle, would never tell him he must die. She just wouldn't have the heart. Even if she knew it was the right – the _only_ thing to do, she'd never bring herself to say the words. In her naivety, in her stubborn optimism she'd urge him to look for other answers, to never give up hope, to believe that fate could be changed. That's what she would do, for she cannot believe that future can be hopeless or unchangeable – never could, never will.

It is all right for his father's puppet to say the words urging him towards death, though – they need to be said; _he_ knows he has to die, no matter what his love hopes for, and hearing that from her lips helps, somehow.

His father wants to distract him with her image – wants to lure him away from the island yet, in his clumsy and childishly rush way, inadvertently helps him to strengthen his resolve. The irony of that!.. Every time the illusionary Belle comes, he is a step closer to saying farewell to the real one; he is an inch closer to letting go of all his hopes – really, really letting go of them.

It is just that he is not ready yet. Not quite.

He seems to be in control – he thinks he is in control, despite his weakness and lapses of reason. He is aware of himself, of things around him; he is alert to magic around him, though its' nature is alien to him; reckless freedom of his father's willful self that rules the island is opposed to the structured self-control that is necessary to be him – the Dark One, whose power is dependent on control; hence the dagger, the ultimate tool of control. That is why he removes his shadow (God, who would have thought is will be so painful? But then, didn't they say that man's shadow is a reflection of his soul? Well, it is no wonder it is painful to remove it, then), and sends it away with his dagger. His father and his wild will must never get hold of it – unspeakable pain and horror would ensue.

He is also aware that his companions are not making any progress. No wonder, that: they can't. Their efforts are futile; Emma's magic, even if she develops it, will not help. It is useful for minor technical tasks, and he admires her progress as he senses it. Yet nothing, no amount of light magic, can help defeat Pan, simply because his magic is not dark or light – it is a thing wrapped it itself, completely unique, a product of his unruly mind and selfish heart. You've got to destroy the man to stop the magic.

Sounds simple enough, if the man you mean is not your own father; for, despite all that he knows about Pan, all that he learned about him in past centuries, all the hurt induced by him, he is still his own flesh and blood. And he still loves him, and remembers how he worshipped him, and the laughs they had, and the good times. And he still thinks, foolishly, that something could be changed between them. After all, he is a father himself, and has – had… – a son.

Did not Bae give him the benefit of the doubt when they met? Did not he try to save him? Did not he go with him – and the rest of the family – to know him better, to give him a chance to redeem himself? Wasn't he hurt when he believed that his father did not change? Would he like it if his son, upon seeing him after many years, instantly stabbed him through the heart instead of at least trying to talk?

Doesn't he owe it to his father to try and talk to him before killing them both, leaving things unresolved for all eternity?

He is not ready to do that. Not yet. Not all his hopes are lost, yet.

But they will be, eventually, he feels them slipping farther and farther away from him with every second he spends in this realm of darkness, so he has to prepare himself. There are certain things to be done – rituals to be performed. Dead of the Dark One is a major magical event, always. None of these deaths were self-inflicted, yet. The force possessed by the Dark Ones was always transferred from human to human; it never went free. If the Dark One will kill himself, there will be no body to host this power. It will be unleashed into the world, great and dangerous, uncontrolled by and uncontained in human body. This power needs to be structured. It needs to be shown a way to return to the place of darkness from where it first emerged. And there is a method to achieve that: the body of the Dark One must become a map for the forces within. He knows how it is done – he studied all the books on the subject once he became the vessel of this power. He did it out of curiosity and general discipline of his mind: he had no intention to kill himself, then; he had no intention to die, ever; but he studied the ways and the means.

He knows he has to create a potion – a simplistic, tribal one, ancient as the emergence of the Dark One itself, and powerful in a primeval way of all old magic, – that would turn his body into a totem of his power, his face into a mask of darkness inside.

He prepares it with great care, knowing that on his father's island every plant could look deceivingly different, and soil itself might contain something vicious; when the potion is ready, he paints his face with it, feeling instant connection with the tribal magus that first brewed the concoction.

He feels the paint seep through his skin, changing his blood, giving it new structure.

He feels at once revived and detached from himself.

He is almost ready – almost done.

And that is when his fate, ever alert in its' wish to laugh at him, strikes, bringing him back Bae, alive and unhurt, and bringing all his hopes and will to live back.

His boy needs him; he talks to him. They plan and fight together, and it feels like a chance to relive all the games that they had in such long-gone past, and like a chance to get to know him as a grown man, to get accustomed to him, so changed and yet still the same, to realize, deep inside, that this strong man, battered by life and still possessing such vigor, is his beautiful boy – the same babe he held in his arms, the same boy he brought up alone, the same teenager he couldn't connect with.

And it does not matter that his son is angry with him and doesn't trust him fully – how could he, all of a sudden? It does not matter that his son's judgment is so easily influenced by Pan; after all, the crime his father accuses him of _was_ his intention a while ago. When his son leaves him behind, magically paralyzed, tricks him to make him stay away from his family, it hurts as hell – it hurts like a stab in the back. But still it is an action of a man alive and therefore prone to error. Still it is something that could be discussed and amended, between father and son. There is a present and a future in this small betrayal. It is a connection. It is a mistake that could be rectified by life…

If someone has a life to correct mistakes. If someone has a future to look forward to.

And he doesn't.

He stands there, in the middle of the musty jungle, slowly waiting for the spell with which his son stranded him to pass, and feels tears slowly making their way down his immobile face. He is crushed now, his heart is in pieces, his grief so strong that, if he had a voice, he would howl. His loss was not enough to destroy him; his separation with his love was not enough to destroy him. His son's betrayal was not enough; it was nothing, really. It was the renewal of hopes, the intense desire to live, the clear sense of the future to come, that crushed him; for he has no right to hopes, no chance to live, and he has no future. All the light, all the chances of redemption, of being with his loved ones are not for him. They were shown to him, they are here, in his grasp – but that means nothing. For all the good things to happen, for all happy endings to come true, he still has to die.

_That_ is when his heart truly despairs.

And that is when darkness, which lay in waiting, watching his struggles, springs at him.

Belle comes to him; his bewitchingly gentle messenger of doom comes to him, but she now changes her tone. She used to speak to him of death, trying to weaken his resolve with words he needed to hear, but didn't want to.

She now tells him things he _wants_ to hear – tells him _of_ things he wants more then anything else in the world. Life. Love. Future with his family. Light. Peace.

'Leave this place. Come back to me. You don't have to die – there must be another way', she says, and she reaches to caress his face.

These are words that Belle, real Belle, would say. These are things she would wish.

'Take my hand, and all will be well', she says. And it is so tempting. It sounds so _right_.

He knows it is still not her, doesn't he? He knows, in his mind, that it is still the darkness speaking. Yet mind is powerless when heart speaks; and right now darkness speaks from his heart, which it penetrated as he allowed himself to hope, and to despair.

Darkness glows from within, as love would. It wants to console him, as love would.

Darkness replaced love, and it is not cold and dangerous anymore. It is warm and welcoming, like the putrid air of the jungle, and he is gone. Defeated.

His father had won.

But there are different kinds of love in the world, and love that saves him is… unexpected. It is a bitter, complicated, passionate and undeclared love of a girl whom he brought up – a girl that always loved him as a father of sorts, though she'd never voice it – she'd rather die then admit it. Regina, his pupil, his creation, his adopted daughter, comes in to snap his reverie – to bring him back to his senses, she chases away his tormenting illusion, and leaves him chastened and slightly disoriented, but grateful nevertheless.

Hers is a different faith, a different brand of optimism to the one Belle possesses; Regina never hopes blindly, she believes in action. And, crushed and weary as he is by his lonely desperate musings, he lets himself be talked into action. Even though she just saved him from a deeply embarrassing situation, he still feels her respect – she still treats him as her teacher, looks up to him for solutions and help. And, gradually, he starts feeling like his old self. The trickster. The king of loopholes. The man smart enough to achieve his goals, yet save his skin.

He does know that it is wrong to feel like that, doesn't he? He does know that, despite all tricks, there is no way to beat fate in this particular issue? Magic simply doesn't work like that; for every short-cut there is a price. There is a price for Pan's destruction, and no amount of wiggling around would reduce it. Yet such is the power of hope renewed that he tells himself there is a way to change his destiny. Such is the power of love that he is ready to risk everything for a chance to fulfill it.

As he prepares his coded message to Belle, to be sent with a mermaid, he is smiling in a silly, absurdly relieved way. He is talking to her, and he seems to see her face as he phrases the instructions; he sees her shining eyes, her wonderment, he hears the happy gasp she utters as she sees his smile. She will do what he needs, and they will succeed; she will see him again, and he will see her.

There is hope.

He sends the mermaid away with a message of love. 'Tell Belle that I love her, and that I am coming back', he says.

He will say those words into his darling girl's smiling lips, soon.

The splash of a tail in the dark water, the whisper of the wind.

It is such a mild, sweet night. The air on the island seems to be purer now, when he is done despairing.

He breaths deeply, catches Regina's quizzical look at him, and smiles almost shyly.

His heart is full of love – he can feel the light.

But where there's light, there's shadow. And deep there, in his heart, this shadow lurks: darkness, which found its' way inside and has no intention of leaving, is biding its' time, smiling like a mischievous boy.


	30. Chapter 30

30

She always knew that there were two persons living within her mind – a dreamer and a practical girl, she used to call them. The one that knows her duty and realities of life; the one that hopes for more and reaches higher. There never seemed to be any real conflict between them; they respected each other and knew each other's usefulness. They lived in peace, they both helped her to adjust herself to life. Two different girls merged to create a happy whole – her.

Now she is conflicted, divided within herself. Two parts of her mind do not work together – they fight and struggle.

The practical one urges her to face reality: she is alone, he is gone, he is not coming back, she lost him, he is probably dead already, and she needs to get a grip of herself – salvage what's left of her life, move on, try to at least imagine a life separate from him. The practical girl tells her it is pointless and degrading to sit in a dark and closed room, crying or just staring into the wall, she urges her to get up in the morning, dress in bright clothes, go out, open the shop, talk to people and try to eat. 'Time would heal you', she says, with self-righteous conviction. 'Step by step you'll get yourself a life of your own'.

The dreamer, always much less argumentative then her counterpart, doesn't say much. She has no words to support her convictions, she is only glaring stubbornly, and screams silently: 'It is crucial, it is all-important to _not_ let go. The moment I will let go, I really will lose him. I have not lost him yet. He is coming back. He is not dead – if he were dead, I would know it instantly. I don't want a life of my own – I don't need it, for I am his forever, and magic has nothing to do with it. And if I want to sit in the dark room crying, holding on to my pain, I will do so, for this pain is part of my love'.

In the end she still gets up, dresses brightly and goes out, because he'd have wanted it.

And every breath constricts her chest with pain, and every smile tears her face apart, and every word comes out of her throat sore, as if it is full of sand. Holding herself together is a physical effort: when no one is looking, her hands are clenched into fists, and her lips are swollen inside from constant biting. And every time she walks into the back of the shop, every time the door closes behind a customer, she nearly collapses; her head sways, and she needs a moment to compose herself, wandering around the room mindlessly, touching his things, trying to feel his lingering touch on them.

It helps. It would probably even help more if people around her weren't so bloody compassionate and kind. It seems she is well liked, and they obviously pity her, so they never leave her alone. Doctor Hopper practically lives in the shop, droning away about the need to accept your losses and count your blessings and move on with 'a life so young and full of promise'. The practical girl nods; the dreamer gnashes her teeth and wants to scream at him; the polite little princes smiles, saying nothing. Her father makes a visit, shuffling around the shop awkwardly, not really having anything to say, mumbling something about the time 'when I lost your mother'. How quick he – and every one else, for that matter, – was in assuming that the Dark One is not coming back!.. Granny is unusually welcoming, insisting that she'd come to diner every day for a burger – serving her these burgers free, and with pickles, as _he_ loved them, and tut-tutting in a worried way when she doesn't eat them.

Gosh, she cannot eat those stupid burgers – she cannot even look at them; what sort of cruelty do people take for kindness, reminding her of a single happy date they ever had?!

The polite princess in her did try to please, once. She ate the burger, cheerfully, but couldn't hold it down – she rushed to the bathroom, and was sick and, as she walked out, having washed her face, Granny gave her a _look_, and started fussing around her even harder.

When she realized what that was all about, she nearly fainted – it is a good thing she didn't, it would have made things so much worse. They thought she might be pregnant, these good people around her, and she couldn't blame them, what with her sickness and her mood-changes, which she failed to mask entirely, and general frailty brought on by lack of sleep and constant, gnawing fear for him. And, knowing perfectly well that she is not carrying his child, she was nevertheless suddenly and violently gripped by the wish that she were.

If only it was so – if he'd left her with part of him behind, not really alone; with part of him alive and with a future to look forward to…

Yet, the instant she gave in to this thought, to this passionate wish, she had to stop herself, sternly. It is a weakness to want to depend on something apart from herself in her vigil for his return. It is a weakness to want any… props to support her strength. It is a betrayal of sorts to want to replace him with anything, even with his own child. He needs her, all of her, to believe in him, to love him, to bring him back. She is His, his only; nothing else must intrude.

She feels the truth of this in her bones, and she is crushed by the loneliness of her fate.

She sticks to coffee on all her future visits to Granny's, and smiles politely. It's not as if she needs to explain herself to anybody – it is not as if she needs to talk to them at all.

If only she had anyone to talk to – anyone who'd understand. But there is no one but him who'd understand – there is no one but him for anything, really.

How can she console herself and move on with life if the person she's supposed to leave behind is the only one who could help her to get through?

Why should she move on when there is still hope?

How can she go on hoping when she is so alone and frightened?

Oh yes, their bond still exists – it still glows, really visible when she closes her eyes and opens her heart to thoughts of him. Yet something is wrong with it – it flickers and twists, reshaping itself, going from bright to weak, struggling. And her heart fills with dark, dark forebodings. She doesn't doubt his love for her, not for an instant. The disturbance of the bond must mean that something is _wrong_ with him. Something troubles him, plays tricks with his soul, twisting right and wrong, light and shadow; something torments him, tearing at his heart, making him doubt himself. When she closes her eyes, she can almost see him – dark and resigned, such as she never saw him, eyelids shut, brow calm, lost in shadow; his heart closing on itself, shutting her out, not because he doesn't want her, but because she'd distract him from what needs to be done.

When she dreams at night, it is of him – there in the darkness, silent, alone yet hunted, reaching for her and letting her go all at once. Wishing to speak to her, yet forcing himself to be silent. Wanting to touch her, yet staying away. Needing her help, yet refusing it. Listening to her, but not taking in the words; it is almost as if it is not her talking. In vain she tries to reach him, to calm him, to help – he just shakes his head, ever so slightly, and smiles a mirthless smile. She wants to help him, all her being wishes to be there, with him, to install into him part of her painfully nursed belief in the future. _'Leave this place. Come back to me. You don't have to die – there must be another way'_, she says, and she reaches to caress his face. And he suddenly opens his eyes, and there is such pain and longing in them. _'Take my hand, and all will be well'_, she says, and there is such hope, such desperate hope in his gaze. He reaches to take her hand, she feels his warm clasp, and instantly his eyes turn into dark, bottomless pits, all light gone from them, and she feels cold wind on her face, and cold fingers grip her heart, and their bond is snapped, lost, extinguished, and she is in darkness, and she wakes with a scream, staring at the pale square of moonlight on the ceiling of the shop.

'Just a dream', she tells herself. 'It is just a dream'. Calming her breath, looking around the room, finding comfort in familiar things, she takes her time before looking into her heart, checking on their bond, which snapped so vividly in this horrible dream she just had. For a moment she believed – she felt – it was gone; that _he_ was gone. But no, there it is – still here, still glowing and suddenly, with no apparent reason at all, she feels that glow grow stronger and brighter, almost blinding, almost as strong as on the pier when she kissed him and charmed him to come back to her.

'Something must have happened to him tonight – something must have made him despair, but then believe in us again, stronger then before', the dreamer thinks.

'You are insane. Your wistful thinking got the better of you. None of these things you are talking about – these bonds, these spells, these promises – none of them are _real_, you know. These things are just emotions, snippets of your imagination. You will go mad if you believe in them so blindly', the practical girl says.

And Belle, real Belle, a very lonely and frightened girl curling on the camp-bed in the back room of antique shop in a small and strange town in a cold and windy country, knows that they are both right, these girls talking inside her head. And she doesn't really know how to live with that – how to go on living at all.

She stays awake for a long time, trying to clear her mind. She falls into a dreamless sleep not long before dawn, and wakes with a heavy head and a sunken heart. Today it is a great effort to get up from the bed – a great effort to dress and go out. Yet still she makes herself move – she goes into Granny's for a morning coffee, and faces all the well-wishers, and smiles, and thinks she will probably die today; nothing dramatic or self-inflicted, she'd just fall apart.

And then a mermaid walks in, and gives her a message she never hoped for, and a magical shell to decode. And, rushing into the shop, instinctively making magic necessary to bid his wishes, she feels reborn – remade – stronger then she ever felt.

The shell comes to life and she sees his face, she hears his voice, she reaches out to touch his image and, despite all the importance of the message, despite the tricky instructions she struggles to remember, the only thing that matters to her is the change she sees in him. His face, his voice – they are different; not pained and wasted, as they were when they were saying good-bye on the pier, not dead and resigned as in her dreams. He is full of life, strong, cunning, resourceful – he is not dying as he speaks to her, he is living and hoping and building his life.

She takes in his dry, wry features, she sees his twisted smile and she feels, suddenly, that all will be, indeed, well. He will come back, really and truly. He has that in him, now.

And that knowledge is enough to defeat the enemies that try to hinder her in the task he gave her – to lure them on her side. That knowledge is enough to get through the day full of frenzied action – through the night full of troubled dreams, where darkness chases upon him, yet again, and he seems to disappear in it completely, yet again.

This time she is not frightened, this time she doesn't doubt herself and doesn't despair. She knows now she is not alone in her faith – she is not alone in her hopes. He believes in them, too – he hopes to come back to her, too. Let the darkness come, let it try to take them – it will not succeed. Were there's darkness, must be light, that's how the world works.

She'd give him the light. She'd flood the road he travels by with light from her heart.

For once, the practical girl is silent – she has nothing to say against such tortured, ravaged hope. The dreamer rules, today.

Come the morning, the dreamer stands on the pier, where they said good-bye such an impossibly long week ago, and stares into the clear blue sky, stares there to the point of blindness, wishing to see through space and time, wishing to see him coming, knowing that, when he comes, she would not need her eyes to see him – her heart would tell her that he is, finally, back.


	31. Chapter 31

31

Rage – he was supposed to feel rage at his entrapment. Rage at his own stupidity and gullibility, rage at his inability to act at once when action was required and he hesitated, hindered by his naïve hope to make his father see reason, rage at his father's unrelenting malevolence. Impotence, too, and violent wish to break free, frustrated effort that couldn't come to anything. Regret, loss, humiliation – tricked by the oldest of tricks, a king of loopholes, indeed! Heart-wrenching fear for his family, abandoned by him involuntarily at the moment of peril and now bound to fail in their task.

Does he feel them, those emotions, as he remains trapped in the charmed ancient box, which he intended as an eternal prison for his father and in which he ended up imprisoned himself? He does, probably – he cannot really tell, because he cannot really _feel_ much. How does a man feel anything if he has no physical body – if he is reduced to mind alone? We live our lives believing that our brain rules over our bodies – it tells the heart to beat and pump blood through our veins, the nerves to feel, the eyes to see; our brain interprets things that happen to our bodies and turns basic chemical reactions into emotions we call 'love', or 'hate', or 'pain', or 'longing'. Without a brain to rule it, our body becomes a meaningless bundle of meat and bones. Yet mind divided from flesh is powerless, closed on itself, imprisoned. Active, but lacking the matter to command – like a general left without an army, or a mad king who, having lost his kingdom, wanders alone across a solitary desert, howling at the wind, trying to command the tempest, unaware of the futility of his efforts. They say death comes only when the brain dies; yet a brain alive in a paralyzed body is the worst torture. And a brain alive without a body at all is the ultimate prison: no fist to knock at the wall, no tongue to curse your fate, no teeth to grind in frustration, no lungs to sigh, no eyes to shed tears. Just darkness, and isolation, and silence, and eternity of hopelessness, and constant brooding. And pain – at realization that things that mattered to you when you existed, when you were a human body, weak and faulty and alive, still, somehow, matter to you. Not just chemical reactions then, all these things we call love, and hate, and pain, and longing. They stay with you even when your body is gone – when nothing of you remains but your soul.

What a cruel twist of nature, that – your suffering and your hopes don't die with you, and you have an eternity to look back in anger and love, to regret, to remember. Remember your hopes, your dreams, your good intentions. Remember the surge of gladness in your heart when your son conceded to trust you, to some extent, and admitted needing your help. Remember the light of love that you felt as you planned your naïve trickery. To feel this love, absurdly; to know now, with absolute certainty, that passion, which seemed so strong once as to blind you, was not the main thing about your love. You have no body to desire and touch, but your longing is undiminished. Your spirit, pure and unsoiled by flesh, still holds on to the bond with that other, beloved soul living far away from you somewhere across realms.

Yet your spirit is trapped, unable to fly to its' kindred spirit, and the frustration of _that _is worst of all. It would make your heart break and bleed, but you have no heart.

When your self is reduced to mind alone, you cannot suffer in full; you need a body to hurt and struggle.

When your self is reduced to mind alone, you cannot do magic; for magic is emotion, and you need a body to feel rage and hope.

When your self is reduced to mind alone, you cannot fight the darkness. Yet, strangely, you don't need to: without a body to fear and fail you, darkness cannot invade your soul. Closed on itself, it is a fortress no one can conquer. So, strangely, even being submerged in total darkness you are immune to it – you are locked in the cell with your love.

Not the worst prison mate, that – love.

His father certainly didn't count on that; he is cunning and treacherous, but he never had a steady hand; even when he made a living as a gambler, he tended to rush into things, overplay his hand, overestimate himself and underestimate his counterparts. His father probably thought that he'd collapse in his dark prison; he did not. His father was sure his family would fail, discouraged; they did not.

Regina, his adopted daughter, prevailed upon Pan's tricks. Bae, his long-lost son, put all his love, not yet admitted but powerful, into the effort required to enact blood magic, and free him.

He emerged from his prison into the world changed – into a weird reality in which all wrongs suddenly righted themselves. His grandson saved, his son all-forgiving, the good people around him embracing him as family should; his love waiting for him with open heart, just a flight – just a night – away.

A happy ending. A magical change of his fate. All too good to be true, and somewhere at the back of his mind he knows it. A tiny, whining voice whispers, somewhere inside him: 'There has to be a price to this'. Yet he doesn't listen; his mind, reunited with his body and overwhelmed by the joy of physical being, pushes all forebodings aside. And who could blame him? It could be that all his life, full of suffering and guilt, was the price for this sudden happiness. It could well be that he already paid for it – that his bargaining with fate came to an end. They are even, now, and he can just live his life. So what if it took him nearly two hundred years to arrive to normality most people have by rights? His was a difficult journey.

He could not sit among others as they traveled towards his father's island a week ago – God, was it really so recent? The time spent there seemed an eternity. He needed time and space to himself to collect his thoughts before facing death. He cannot sit with them now, as they travel back; he needs to be by himself, because, old and wise as he is, he can barely contain his excitement. He is coming back to her – he will see her again, soon; he will hold her in his arms, and kiss her lips – her, his Belle, his real Belle, so beautiful, so his. She wasn't herself for so long – he hadn't been with her, with _Her_, for so long – touching _Her_ again would be a miracle in itself. And there is nothing to stand between them now – no obstacles, no obligations. He did what he swore to do a long time ago, as he made a deal with fate to 'never love anyone until I find him'; that deal is concluded – he found his son; now he can love.

Yes, he wants to be alone to wallow in that happiness – he feels almost as light at heart as he felt once upon a time in his castle, when he first realized his love for her, and lay on his bed naked, released, slightly ashamed and boyishly happy, laughing aloud, smiling at the bright world, ready to embrace it.

Yet, being a father, painfully reminded just recently how bad a father one could be, he comes to sit with his son. Silently, at first, just clasping his hand, feeling the answering squeeze of his son's fingers. Talking, later; hesitantly, at first, unused to being open, unused to talking to him; unstoppable, later, rapidly searching for words, needing to tell him so many things – of his quest, of his regret, of his love. Telling him about Belle; he is unable to stop himself, he needs to talk about her. Catching his son's quizzical, amused look at his banter; blushing, knowing how it looks: an old man, face wrinkled and hair gray, gushing about his love like a schoolboy. Smiling, and getting a smile in return.

And then, suddenly, as all things for which we were waiting for impatiently usually come upon us, they are back – the flying ship bursts through the protection spell that his girl so capably cast around town, and everything is sunlit, and bright, and fresh and shining.

But nothing – not the sun, not the clearest blue sky – compares to her eyes, as he meets their gaze. They shine the brightest.

She is taking him in, her eyes are searching, probing; without asking, she is aware that some change has come upon him, and she wonders at its' nature, and smiles broader as he walks towards her without his familiar limp. He is a changed man, indeed, the self-imposed punishment no longer needed; he needs no reminders of his guilt now that it is atoned.

And them she comes into his arms, and the world stops, complete and perfect, as they are.

A happy ending. A new beginning. A miracle – their own, personal miracle; the one they suffered for, and fought for – the one they earned; the one they, surely, paid for.

But, really, he has no mind, no heart and no time to analyze magical bargains now. The physical reality of being near her, touching her again, is overwhelming – he knew it would be so, but, as it always is between them, the reality is so much stronger. As happy families are reunited around them, as people smile and hug, they slip, quietly, away; Bae sees them go, smiles and actually winks at his father. He raises an eyebrow at him: cheeky boy!

They walk the town together, she at his arm, as they used to; she cuddles closer, pressing herself to his side, and smiles up at him. He squeezes her fingers, resting on his arm, and his heart melts.

Her fingers. Her small, warm hand. Her soft, soft skin.

Without discussing it, they go to his shop – it is so much more home to him then his house, and she knows it well. She smiles proudly as he opens the door to the familiar sweet tingle of a bell and, as he takes in the room, he smiles back, understanding her pride: she kept everything in perfect order. The place looks as if he never left it – as if he just stepped out for a minute and would be back very soon.

It must have been a conscious effort on her part, to keep it so, knowing, as she knew then, that he wasn't coming back.

He looks closer at her face and sees things that he first overlooked in his blinding joy of finding her again. There are shadows beneath her eyes, she is pale; her hands tremble a little as she places them on his shoulders, fingering leathery surface of the coat he donned on the island.

She must have suffered so.

His fingers reach to touch her cheek, as they did a long time ago in the woods by the wishing well, when he first found her after the breaking of the curse. 'Belle', he whispers, voice husky. 'Belle'.

Her eyes fly up to meet his. 'Promise me', she says, forcefully. 'Promise that we shall be together forever, now – that nothing will tear as apart. No magic, no curses, no nothing. Promise me that nothing will be more important to you then I am, ever. Promise'.

His heart constricts at the searing pain in her eyes.

'Yes, sweetheart', he says, barely audibly. 'I promise'.

Her face crumples, as if she were a crying child, and, with a sob, she buries her face on his chest, pressing him to her, clutching his shoulders, kissing his neck in the opened shirt-collar, her tears falling on his skin. And her wet, sad, passionate assault is heartbreaking and painfully exiting all at once. She is all over him – her touch, her tears, her sobbing reproofs, her slightly hysterical smiles, her kisses, the smell of her hair, the warmth of her skin, the curves of her body. He finds himself crying with her, and muttering mad sweet rubbish, and kissing her lips, finally, kissing them with almost ravage force, pressing her face between his hands, fingers tangled in her hair, tracing her wet cheeks; his lips leave her lips, only to trace the length of her neck, down to her shoulders and lower, to her cleavage. His hands leave her face, only to tear at her dress, wishing to remove all barriers between his fingers and her skin. She is tugging at his coat, too; he slips out of it, this strange garment in which he faced his demons – it has no place here, in their own closed, wonderful world. Suddenly all these things – shoes, boots, trousers, stockings, underwear – become too much for him; he cannot be hindered buy such trivialities when all he wants is to be with her, now. With a flick of the wrist, with a whiff of purple smoke their clothes are gone, and she gives a harsh laugh: 'You should do this more often!..' And then they stand naked in the middle of his shop, breathing ruggedly, eyes on each other, hands momentarily relaxed on their sides; they stand naked in a sunlit room full of magical things, and the weirdness of the scene doesn't bother them in the least.

Together, naked in a strange world, like Adam and Eve.

A new beginning.

She stopped crying. She looks at him with deep, solemn eyes, strangely much like she looked at him when they first met, and she promised him forever.

She takes a step forward, and presses herself to him, bodies fitting together like parts of the whole. Her lips touch his collarbone, her hands are resting at the small of his back, her breasts are pressed to his chest. His hands come around her waist, and he rests his face on top of her head; closes his eyes, inhales her smell. His body sings with her closeness, his skin is alight, tingling with excitement, all over; his arousal is hard against her abdomen, throbbing every time her breath warms his skin. He presses her a little bit closer to him, pushing his pelvis forward, and she shivers, and draws a sharp breath, and throws her head back, exposing her throat to his hungry lips. Her eyes are closed, mouth slightly agape, and he is torn between desire to suck her tongue, or to lick her nipples. He goes for her mouth, and cups her breast with one hand, and her knees buckle; she slips down along his body, comes to rest on the floor, on her knees, hands on his buttocks, lips on his arousal, taking it in, eyes closed, and it is his turn to shudder and feel his legs go weak; clasping her by the hair, he draws her face away from his erection – he doesn't want all this to be over, not so soon. She looks up at him, her eyes dreamy, mellow, lips dark and swollen, looks at him just as she looked at him many years ago in his castle as she tried to break his curse, and his heart rushes out to her, threatening to break his ribcage, just as it did then. He sinks on the floor in front of her, kneeling between her spread legs; she opens for him, shamelessly, and he touches her between the thighs, and his hand is all sticky and wet at once – she is so ready for him, and suddenly he cannot wait anymore – he pulls her towards him, and she falls on her back, opening her legs wider for him, and he rushes in, buries himself in her, up to the hilt, in one swift movement, and feels instant shudder of her release, at once, as she digs her fingernails into his back, forcing him closer, even closer to her, and deeper. He starts moving inside her, his head swaying, vision blurred, breath coming out is gasps; they made love so many times, and he never felt her so intensely. She moans and twists under him, she trusts forward, her hands beat against the floorboards in strange frenzy, she bites her lower lip, and her insides tremble and shudder, once more and, as she comes, he comes too, momentarily blind, momentarily dead, gone inside her – turned into her, basking in light.

They stay by each other on the floor, entwined, silent, content, for the moment, for a long time. His mind drifts as he embraces her, gently stroking her naked back.

So that's how it feels to be fully loved by her.

So that's what forever is like.

He never felt so close to anybody. He never felt such peace.

When they eventually get up, the light has changed; it is twilight. He glances at the door, still unlocked, still with the sign 'Open' turned towards the street. She blushes, then shrugs her shoulders, and he watches, delighted, the ensuing movement of her breasts.

Laughing, they stumble to the back room – they need new clothes instead of ones he charmed away. There are some of her dresses in the wardrobe, and his suit. He gives her a questioning look, and she says, echoing his words from the past: 'I kept them… in case you came back'. He nods, speechless.

They dress up, assuming their civilized looks, she brushes her hair, and knots his tie – something she didn't know how to do, before.

'I practiced', she says, not looking him in the eye.

That's how she believed in his return – in him – in _them_.

He is hesitant, suddenly lost for words. He knows what he wants to say, what he wants to do now that they are normal, happy people. He wants to be sure that she is happy and secure, always by his side. There are simple words to achieve this end – no magic is required: 'Marry me' – it is not a spell, everyone can say that. But it is somehow impossible to say them, these words. Two hundred years old dark wizards don't do weddings; it is plainly odd.

Suddenly shy, he manages a close approximation of the proposal that so potently needs to be made; he promises her a future together. She smiles. She is happy with that.

Hand in hand, they walk to his – their – house, and spend enchanted, wondrous night there, a night peaceful and exited all at once; wrapped in each other, making love, drinking a little wine, eating cheese and grapes that he charmed on the spot, talking, laughing, just smiling, kissing endlessly, drifting to sleep in each other's arms, finally. A night apart from the world, a night stolen from fate. The happiest night in his life. Blissful. Untainted.

And the next day, when a new crisis erupts in the town, when it becomes clear that his father is by no means defeated, and he rushes to help fighting him, feeling the dread of doom slowly creeping up his spine to enclose his heart, he wonders: would he have been able to stand it, to rise up to new dangers, if not for that night? It has given him a taste of so many things that it would be unbearable to lose. Yet it has given him the strength to struggle.

It has been a life, albeit a brief one.

As he goes around town chasing his elusive imp of a father, his mind is only partly on the tasks immediately at hand. The thought about the price, the knowledge that fate can't be fooled that he forced from his mind when he was faced with his happy ending – it comes back; it is now foremost for him. He was a fool to think the fight was over. He was a fool to think he won, so easily. But then, he wanted to believe – he wanted it so much. A fool, a romantic fool, who still believes in love, after so many years.

And when his father tricks him, yet again, with humiliating ease, with the simple sleight of hand, he tricks him exactly because he is a fool who believes in love. He thought, he still thought that his father could be talked to – that he could see the light, so to speak.

He was wrong and, as could be expected, he ended up on the floor, crying, defeated, faced with the same choice that he had before him all along: to die, or to see the death of people he loves. Not a choice at all, really; he'd die either way.

His mind raced, centuries of tricks and twists closing up on him, refusing to believe that this time no tricks will do – there will be no loopholes. Yet he is not only a king of loopholes – he is a master of deals, too, and he knows a deal you can't wiggle out of when he sees one.

He made a promise to Belle, just yesterday. He promised that nothing would ever be more important to him than her. He has to fulfill this promise.

If he will not stop his father, she'll die.

There is nothing more important to him than her life.

Her life has a price, and he has to pay it.

A straightforward deal, really.

As he walks up the main street to meet his sneering, smiling father, this abomination of nature, a child with an old and dead heart, he feels strange calm descend upon him. He always thought himself a coward, he always clung to his life and safety; he would have thought he'd be more frightened to die. It is so strange, so unbelievable that this simple thing – loving someone, giving yourself to someone – can make one so free of fear.

Freedom of the right choice made with an easy mind. What a wonderful thing.

He confronts his father, distracts him from his captive victims, standing there in the middle of the street, frozen by dark magic. He tries not to look at them, up till the very last moment.

She'd know what is happening – she'd feel what he is about to do.

He cannot go on watching the screaming silent pain in her eyes.

When he looks at his son, finally, and looks at her, he knows he was right. They know. They feel. They suffer.

They love him.

What a powerful thing, love, able to give you strength and to kill you in one move.

He tells them what he needed to tell them.

He looks into her stricken eyes, pleading. _'Don't be angry with me. Do not blame me for abandoning you, yet again. I am doing it because I love you. And please, please don't be destroyed by this. Don't die, inside. Don't die, ever. Go on. Live your life. Live for me'_.

He wonders if she understands, or if pain made her temporary blind.

He summons his shadow with his dagger, summons it easily, despite having no magic; it is a symbol of his soul, and a man about to die needs no magic to reunite with his soul, for one needs his soul to be able to die.

His father is so surprised by his sudden stroke – he never expected it. Underestimating his counterpart, as ever. 'I pulled one over you, papa', he wants to say. But this is not the time for cheap quips.

As his dagger goes through his father's flesh, as he hears the horrid sucking sound, he quivers – he is momentarily terrified of his action. He is stabbing a child, for goodness sake!.. But, as the cloud of black smoke envelops them and his father's familiar old face emerges, the calm returns. He looks into this lined, wasted face and suddenly remembers how it was – how he laughed, how they played, how he tossed him up in the air, tickling him, and the wonderful joy and fear of this flight; he was sure his father would catch him, then – and he did. Something, somewhere went wrong for this man, his father – something robbed him of love. What a sorrow it is that he has to die to feel this love again.

Yes, that is what he feels – what he knows as he stands embracing his father, pinning him with the dagger: he is doing this out of love. Not out of fear or revenge; he is doing it so that his father could once again become a man he has been.

He looks into this old face, and sees so many faces along with it. Bae, a baby and a boy and a teenager and a grown man: happy, sad, angry, hopeful – always loved, always loving. Milah, when she was a young girl, kissing him with smiling lips. Cora, proud and defiant, challenging him, loving him, struggling with him. Regina, proud and surprised at her awakened powers, grateful to him – looking at him with awe, loving him. Henry, eating his snack, chatting to him happily – intrigued, fascinated. Loving him. And in all of them, the faces of the people he loved and people who loved him, he sees Her face – her smile, her eyes, her courage, her innocence, her light. Her love.

She has been present in all the loves he ever knew – she encompassed them, eclipsed them, they were all part of her, even before they met – even before she was born.

And he found her, and loved her – she had been his.

He was blessed.

As he twists the dagger, and trusts it deeper, slashing his own skin and flesh, reaching for his own heart, there is pain, and strange coldness as the air fights to rush into the wound. He doesn't mind the pain; it is just a sign that he is alive, and it will pass soon.

He feels his own blood, hot and sticky, soaking his shirt, chilling his skin. He feels his feet and hands grow stiff and cold as the beating of his pierced heart slows. The peace, the calm are still upon him and, as his eyelids grow heavy and his vision blurs, he sees, absurdly and sweetly, her face – her happy, youthful face, as she looked at him over her shoulder standing on the ladder, smiling indulgently at some silly quip of his.

_Why do you spin so much?.. There is love in your heart, and for something more than your power… And since then, you loved no one, and no one has loved you…Why did you come back?.. An empty heart, and a chipped cup… Excuse me, do I know you?.. I remember, and I love you… This is exactly the reason I have to stay… When you find something worth fighting for, you never give up… That's who you are… Like a date? Yes, a date… I will see you again…_

Her voice. Her face. Her smiling eyes, her lower lip that she bites when she is shy or exited. The silk of her hair, the warmth of her skin. The love in her heart.

The light.

So much love, there was so much love in his life, just waiting to be let in. He lets it in, now. It floods him, now – every drop of blood is a drop of love. He sees nothing of the real world now – only her face, her eyes, her light. Their bond, stronger then ever. Blindingly bright, all around him, engulfing him. No place for darkness.

No darkness can stand such light as the one he steps into now.

_Sweetheart, I am dying._

So much love.

The pain passes, finally. It is gone, and he never noticed.


	32. Chapter 32

32

His eyes, burning her with desperate tenderness just an instant ago, fading – losing focus. His voice, so consciously level, so studiedly calm, slurring – struggling to come across distinctly, carefully enunciating each word. His skin, paling as blood gushes from his wounded heart, dripping on the pavement, unnoticed.

His face, so peaceful.

His fingers, convulsed at the back of a man he embraces with such infinite gentleness.

His fingers, rigid with pain of which he seems unaware.

His pain that tears her apart, his pain that she feels as sharply as if it was her heart slashed open, her limbs losing strength, her life sipping away quietly with every drop of his blood.

Her worst nightmare, his death, played out in reality before her staring eyes. The impossible. The unthinkable.

Worse. It is much worse.

In darkest dreams, in bleakest fears she never pictured herself frozen, unable to move, unable to scream, unable to cry, unable to help – unable to touch him there, just a yard away from her. Watching his final moments, unable to be near.

His lips, getting slack, struggling to smile.

His fingers, trembling.

His eyelids, dropping.

His face so calm and remote, as if he is falling into sleep, unearthly pale, almost translucent in the light that engulfs him.

This is a face of a man she always saw in him – a face she glimpsed in their brightest moments together. His true self. The man she loves.

She sees him fully, finally. And he dies in front of her.

And she just stands there, watching. Unable to blink, to avert her eyes from the unbearable sight.

Knowing that she wouldn't take her gaze off him even if she could.

His face, fading away into the light.

His face, gone.

All of him gone, and her whole self, her life, her past and her future gone with him. Nothing left, not even a stain of blood on the stones.

The curse lifts; there are horrified gasps around her. She doesn't really hear, she isn't really aware of anything around. She slips quietly down, on her knees, stunned, shaking, liquid with weakness, realizing that only the force of the dark spell kept her standing, kept her from falling down – from falling apart.

Nothing to keep her from that, now.

'He is gone'. Is that really her voice? Sounds so different, drowned in a sob.

Nobody takes notice. They have things to do – save themselves, sacrifice themselves.

No wonder, that – what's there to notice? She is not here. She is gone, too.

She wonders why she isn't dead herself, yet – her heart doesn't seem to be beating.

Well, may be she is dead, and gone into her personal hell – to watch him die in front of her, over and over again, unreachable.

Unable to touch him. Unable to say good-bye.

Eventually someone helps her up – Bae, it seems. Kind of him, to remember her when his family is in peril. He shouldn't have bothered, though. She was perfectly fine there, on the pavement, staring at the space where he disappeared.

Still, people around insist on whisking her away; they drag her along like a dead weight, unresisting, uncaring. In a haze, she follows where they lead. Dumbly, she accepts ministrations from Doctor Hopper, earnestly pleading with her to be strong, trying to support her; secretly glad to be really needed now, it seems, when she is so obviously on the verge of collapse. She listens and even nods, she was brought up to be polite, but inside she wonders at him. Doesn't he _see_ he's talking to a dead girl? Doesn't he realize what happened?

_He_ is gone. She saw him die, slowly and painfully, she saw life leaving him ounce by ounce, she saw his last breath, the last quiver of his lips, she saw light fading in his eyes.

And she just stood there, watching.

Not just losing him – losing him like _that_, unable to connect, unable to help. Her life is not just finished – it has been proved useless, devoid of any meaning. She was not there for him when he suffered – she was not there for him when he died. What was the point of her life, then – what was the point of her entering his life, challenging his peace, reproaching him, urging him to change, making his life more difficult, his choices harder? She wanted to help him, wanted him to believe the best, wanted him to hope… What good all that brought him?

She wanted to bring him back when he went away – she said she'd see him again.

Well, she saw him again. She saw him die.

Was it easier for him to die with her eyes on him? Did it _help_ him?..

What was the point of her stubborn love, with which she tortured him so? Where is that 'forever' that she promised him? What is their bond doing, clasping her heart in such painful grip, now that there is no heart for it to connect to? True love survives beyond the grave, is that it? Is that the reason she still feels she is bounded to him, and he somehow answers her, calls her over to him? Well, why is she still not in the grave, then?

Oh god, he shall _have_ no grave. She has no body to bury – no body to cry over, no waxen brow to touch, no lips to kiss. This man who sighed her name into her lips this morning as they made love, this man who clasped her hand an hour ago, his hand so warm, his touch so intimate, his secret smile so precious – he's gone.

He's gone, and she loves him so much.

He is gone, yet she still feels he loves her.

She must be insane.

As the people of the town say farewell to their loved ones, as the queen makes her sacrifice, letting go of her beloved son, as the mist of the new curse envelops the town in which she was so miserable and so happy she wonders, dully, why fate was so unrelentingly cruel to him – to both of them. What deal could have a price so steep?

Does it even matter any more?..

As the fog clears, she finds herself in the familiar forest – the land of her youth, the land of her past. She is dressed in her evening gown – the one in which she met him, the one in which she embraced him in the woods and first felt it, this love that came to consume her so, to take her over so completely. Was it really then that she loved him – so late after seeing him for the first time? Didn't she love him the instant she heard his laugh, and looked into his strangely kind eyes as he warned her that her vow to be with him is eternal?

She is dressed as if she hadn't met him yet – as if she never met him at all. And she never would, now; the world into which they came is the same as she remembers apart from one thing – he is not here.

And so this world is empty.

She often pictured her life as a deserted windswept dark plane, him her only companion. The gloomy forest in which she stands now is this plane. And he is not here.

She closes her eyes, to shut out the voices around her, to blink away tears. She wants to be alone, now that she is ultimately alone – she wants to listen to her heart, talking to her of him.

And, as she stands there with her eyes closed, watching the darkness and the emptiness, her heart suddenly gives a jolt, and her eyes are blinded by sudden, forceful spark of light; her love for him, stubborn as ever, refusing to believe it is unrequited now, has been waiting for this moment of quiet to assault her. And the light is so bright, and the pulling at her heart is so strong that she has no choice but to trust them, against all reason and logic. A thought comes to her – not a thought, really, a revelation; if she feels him like that, then it means that his soul is alive, somewhere, calling to her. And if his soul is alive enough to love her, then she'll find a way to bring him back.

Madness, surely. But she was always prone to wild beliefs. She believed she could save him from his curse. She believed they would be together even when he cast her away. She believed they would be together despite everything that ever stood between them. She loved him when she was a sad, conflicted little slut, and believed he could love her. She believed he would come back alive from his quest for death – and he did!..

Is it so hard to believe he could come back from the dead? Not so hard at all.

She opens her eyes and looks at the world with new determination – with a sort of hysterical cheerfulness installed in her. People cast worried glances at her smiling face – all except Bae, who is talking with the Charmings, voicing his own faith that his father could be alive, somehow.

She smiles, quietly. She has an ally, it seems.

She chooses a moment to come up to him and voice her support. He seems to be surprised at her sudden change of heart, gone from despair to hope in five minutes. And, looking in his doubting eyes, she understands that she cannot explain it – not properly. This talk of sudden light behind her closed eyelids – it is going to sound like ravings of the madwoman, who lost her mind to grief and loss. So she has to come up with another, logical reason for her optimism, and she mentions his dagger.

If he were truly, irrevocably gone, the dagger would have been left behind, useless and devoid of all magical power. Yet it is gone with him, they are still connected – so there must be hope.

Not such a bad thought, that. She actually has a point.

Bae nods, convinced by her odd logic, probably just because he wants to believe the impossible – wants it as much as she wants, though for different reasons. So, misunderstood and accompanied by pitying glances they depart from the company of the good ones, as _he_ called them, and start on their journey – on their quest of desperate love.

They make a good team, his son and herself, and they get on well. She feels deep tenderness towards him, this big and burly man with such a sort heart – for her, Bae is still a small boy she imagined when he told her of his lost son; it is as if she inherited some of his parental love and parental illusions.

She looks at the man, often, and wonders at how blood works; he looks nothing like his father, it seems. Yet then comes something – a glance, a flicker of a smile, a wave of a hand – and she sees _him_ in this other man, and her heart is torn open all over. And she tells it to be still – to be patient. To keep faith.

It is a blinding thing, faith, and a terrible thing, hope. They make you oblivious of so many things; they cloud your reason, they make you cut corners.

They make you forget the simplest, basic rule He always repeated; magic has a price. If you engage in magic, you should be prepared to pay. You should at least learn the price. And, when things that are supposed to be incredibly hard to reach suddenly bring themselves to you on the plate, you should ask yourself – what was written in small print on that contract that you signed with fate? That book on the history of the Dark Ones, the book in which the key to his vault was hidden – what does it say? How does it _end_?

Two children lost in the darkness, they do not stop to ask themselves the price. Two children wandering in the woods, they do not think – they just want to find him, a man of darkness that means all the light to them.

She is blinded, blinded by hope. She is torn, torn with his closeness – the farther they go on their quest, the surer she becomes that she is right, he is there somewhere, she feels him; and he wants her, and he will be with her, soon.

As she stands on the snow-covered clearing in the darkest heart of the dark forest, a place weirdly quiet, as if oppressed by the magical forces abound, she feels no danger – her skin tingles with anticipation.

And when it becomes clear that the evil and cunning enemy led them on their way, it is a cruel awakening, but not the loss of hopes. She knows now that she was right – he is not lost forever. She'd just have to find a way – a right way to bring him back.

But his son is faster, and more determined, and more desperate – he doesn't have her mad conviction, he goes by simple logic and will, as most men do.

And, as he presses the key into the door of the vault, and as forces of magic around them come to life and start moving, their dark shapes almost visible against the snowstorm, a deep and cold dread comes upon her. She was always alert to magic – _he _believed she does have magic herself – and she knows that magic she witnesses now is not good. It is deeply dark – darker than anything she ever imagined, and she cannot think of the price for that.

She is terrified, frozen on the spot, almost as she was when she watched him die. As in a dream, as in a nightmare she sees the vault open, and a dark liquid shape emerge from of it. And her horror and dread are made even deeper and painful as she watches the shape shift, assuming human form, for she feels him, now – really feels him.

It is him.

He is back.

He opens his eyes, and looks at her with infinite sadness.

And she is struck, pierced through the heart with a sudden glimpse of his face, as she saw it fading into the light – his peaceful, peaceful face. And a simple and terrible thought strikes her… He died in peace. He fulfilled his destiny.

He died in peace, and he didn't want to be brought back.

She did the wrong thing.

She was selfish, and unthinking, and she made a terrible mistake.

Her heart is bleak with sadness. She failed him. She betrayed the man he was when he died, this man she always saw in him, and brought him back as this cursed thing, to suffer and to struggle, yet again.

She hardly registers the horror that happens around her; Bae's demise, his father's desperate attempt to save him, the evil witch with her devious plan, triumphing. When he is ordered to kill her, she is not scared – she is ready, she deserves it; she should have died then, when he walked into the light, died then with him.

But when he tells her to run, she does.

She stumbles through the dark forest, seeing his tortured face in her mind, choking on her sobs. And she feels his call to her, his desperate longing for her, his wish to bring her back; and she feels his conscious effort to severe the bond, to dim its' light – so that she could get away, so that she could be safe and free. And for once, she does not oppose him.

Guilt and darkness have entered her heart, and they make her run through the night, run farther and farther away from the man she loves – from the man whom she wanted to free, but delivered instead into the hands of the torturer.


	33. Chapter 33

33

In the darkest heart of the Dark Forest, where the trees grow so thick that daylight does not penetrate beneath their leaves even on brightest days lays a clearing; strange, exactly circular in shape, the wall of trees standing around it menacing as fierce guardians. The air here is always cold, the sky clouded; the place is ever silent. Even in summer, the clearing is covered with snow, not bright and virginal, but grey and muddied. No one ever comes into the clearing: humans cannot find it, and birds and beasts in the wood fear it, so no one ever stirs the snow – no one clears the spot in the center of the charmed circle. No one knows that exactly in the center snow conceals an entrance to a dark cave into which no light had ever entered.

It does not seem natural, this clearing, and indeed it is not; it was created not by nature and not by human hand. Great magic happened here thousands of years ago, in the days long past and best forgotten; for it was dark magic, spurned by darkness itself: it acted out of the wish to find a way into the world – to create a messenger that would carry out its' will. A human endowed with the greatest power in the world, all of it dark – that was what darkness wanted; that was its' plan, and it seemed to have no faults, for darkness has watched humans for a long time and knew that for power they would sacrifice anything. It had no difficulty in finding a human to act for it – a tribal magus, whose restless mind has been long seeking the limits of knowledge, – even though it warned him that the price of power is steep; he'd have to sacrifice his soul, and to give up his body so that it would become the vessel of darkness within. The magus concurred, gladly. But darkness underestimated its' servant; he was cunning and, sensing the danger of the deal, he created the tool that might control him, and with which he would be able to pass on his power to another human if need arose – the price of the exchange being the initial price of the deal: a human life.

The darkness had to accept that; it had no doubt that its' aim would be achieved anyway – it knew the darkness of human heart, and knew that all thoughts of control would leave the man possessed with power.

The magus entered the cave, and spilled his blood on the stone in its' center, and smeared a dagger with his blood, so that his name appeared on the blade, binding him and darkness forever; and the deal was done, and a man gone, and a new force came into being.

Thus the Dark One was created, and with him, his dagger.

For thousands of years they walked the earth, creating havoc and grief. For thousands of years darkness gloried in its' victory, watching as wizard after wizard succumbed to it; watching as, when mortals had a chance to control the Dark One, power over him corrupted their souls.

Darkness triumphed.

But then, one day, something unforeseen happened. The Dark One that possessed the power for over a century decided to pass it on, and choose for that a man despised by everyone, a man whose soul was desperate and life haunted. A perfect candidate, it seemed, but for one thing: his heart was full of love, his reason for accepting the darkness was a wish to protect his loved ones – to protect all innocents in the world.

For the first time in eternity, the darkness met an obstacle; the man who became the Dark One resisted the power that was given him. With all his will, he tried to remain human and to control the darkness in his heart. Of course the darkness could not accept that; it fought with its' servant, tried to bend him to its' will. Over and over again it challenged him, pushed him deeper into despair and rage. It took away his loved ones, it clouded his mind, it exploited his every weakness; it made him the loneliest of men. And still he resisted; still there was hope in his heart, and vestiges of kindness, and still he loved, and sought redemption for his sins, his darkest crimes serving but one end – to redeem the greatest mistake he ever made, a betrayal of his son. A mistake orchestrated by darkness, of course; a mistake that made him more committed to love then ever before – so given to the power of love, in fact, that Love itself found a way into his life.

The darkness could not stand it; it had to punish the rebel, to bring him on his knees. The Dark One must serve the darkness; if he does not, let him fall – many humans would eagerly step into his shoes; darkness will have no difficulty finding another man to serve it. It gathered its' force, it sought help of all the dark hearts it possessed, and it brought its' mutinous servant down.

Or so it thought for, just as at the very beginning of things, darkness underestimated a human it used.

The Dark One fell, but he triumphed in his fall. He died with a heart full of love and light; he died in the name of love, and stepped into the light, sending darkness, which hoped to roam the world freely when he disappeared, back into the place where it all started – back into the prison of the dark cave in which the initial exchange between darkness and a human took place, back to where the first soul was sold for power.

So in the darkest heart of the Dark Forest the clearing lay, deserted by all life and covered with snow, only sound around the whisper of the cold wind. And under the snow, an entrance to the ancient vault was hidden, sealed forever. And in the vault itself, in its' black depth, stood a stone, once covered with blood of the first human to serve the darkness. And on this stone lay a dagger, a dagger that controlled the greatest wizard of the world – a dagger that had never before returned to this place. It had no one to control now, and its' blade was supposed to be clear of any writing. Yet the blade that lay there, in the depth of the secret cave, still bore a name of the last man who possessed the dagger.

'Rumpelstiltskin'.

It lay there silently, emanating a weak, shimmering golden gleam.

A ray of light in a place of eternal darkness.

Darkness watched it in awe, unable to vanquish it, trying to figure out how it happened.

The first man who gave up his soul and his body sealed his deal with darkness with his blood. Every Dark One after him sealed the continuation of the deal with blood; murder committed with the dagger was a sure proof of readiness to serve.

This man, this last man, who proved so difficult to rule, used the dagger to kill himself. His blood, spilling on the blade, broke the deal – changed it forever. The power has come full circle, and came to a stop. His blood, changed with the first magus's potion, showed the dark power the way to the place of its' birth; and here it stays, the dagger both its' lock and a key to it, paralyzed.

And the dagger still bears a name of the man who held it last, for he is still its' master; no one took it from him.

And the dagger glows in the dark for the force with which the man broke the cursed circle was light. It was Love, over which darkness has no ultimate power.

So they have reached an impasse, the darkness and its' rebellious servant, dead now but still not yielding to its' will. He sacrificed himself, and broke its' power. He imposed his light onto the heart of darkness, and darkness has no choice but to suffer it, for it can do nothing.

He mastered it.

He rules it, now.

So the darkness lingers around the dagger, fearing its' power, shying from the light. It senses that nothing could be done about it. It is a force in itself.

It is, somehow, alive.

Darkness has no way of knowing it, for it has no understanding of the way light works, but it is right: the dagger is alive, in a sense, for it contains a loving soul.

All thoughts of the man dying were of love – he was given to it, wholly. Love filled his heart, love was the force he used to conquer darkness, love gave him strength to bear his pain; so it is his love that went to rest in the magical blade – his love that keeps his name written on steel.

His love is alive, and he is alive with it. Not his mind, this human thing with its' reasoning that always interferes with purity of feeling; not his mind, that would have been filled with regrets and pain. His soul, which knows only the truth. It smiles as it senses how puzzled and defeated darkness is. It smiles as it hears the darkness whisper, trying to convince him, trying to lure him on its' side: 'Darkness is not only gloom and misery and rage. Darkness is bliss of oblivion. Darkness is shelter for the suffering. Darkness is the warmth of the night that envelops lovers'.

'Stop talking, it is futile. I have seen the truth, and I know it', his soul says. And the darkness seizes its' whispering.

And the dagger glows quietly in a place where no light ever shone.

And, knowing it can do nothing with this alien thing trust into its' place of power, darkness goes to look for other ways to re-establish its' supremacy. It goes to search what it knows best – human hearts. And there, naturally, it finds what it wants.

It finds a heart of a woman so bitter and greedy for power that darkness is amazed their paths haven't crossed before – this woman should have been the Dark One, her heart is desperate and malicious enough.

This woman would help the darkness to triumph, again; she'd be the driving force of what darkness has in mind. But this woman alone is not enough – she is too selfish, and a sacrifice is needed so that darkness could reign again.

So darkness searches further, and finds what it wants. Two hearts full of love, hope and pain. Two hearts eager to sacrifice anything to bring back the love they lost.

The very love that glows in the vault, disturbing the order of things.

Darkness smiles. Human hearts – you can always count on them. They never fail to fall for pain and longing.

The rest is easy.

Two loving hearts follow the call of the love they seek to redeem. _His_ son, and the love of his life – what could be better? One evil heart leads them and 'helps' them. A woman who is obsessed with him, _and_ she is a magical being, impossible to defeat – better still.

Finally, the stage is set.

A man desperate, ready to give anything to achieve his aim – just what darkness needs.

He gives his soul, and the dark circle starts again. He gives his soul, and the deal between humans and darkness is renewed.

As the snow on the clearing melts, as the doors of the vault start moving, opening, as the magical forces rage around the stone on which the dagger lays is suddenly flooded with blood – the original blood, brought back by the new sacrifice. The dagger drowns in this blood, its' glow vanquished, and then slowly, menacingly blood changes into the thick dark liquid, and it starts raising up and up, towards the surface of the clearing, and as it goes up, it gradually turns into flesh, and flesh acquires a mind, and mind fills with anguish and pain, with reproofs and regrets, with fear and longing, it fills with love and loss, it fills with a silent complaint: 'Why did you wake me up with your cruel gentleness? I rested in piece'.

And with flesh resurrected and heart full of pain, a new Dark One is born.

Still the same man who fought the darkness and conquered it; his dagger is with him, and it still bears his name. Still just as stubborn, perhaps, but it is of no consequence now: he is vulnerable – the darkness has seen to that.

It does not matter that he robs the darkness of the sacrificed soul it needed, absorbing it into himself. It is temporary, and it is a desperate act of a man full of fear and sorrow – so in itself it is a gift to darkness; another way into a soul that used to be so relentlessly resistant.

It does not matter that his heart is lurching towards the terrified girl whose blind faith helped the darkness so; her heart is full of horror and regrets, her love is tainted – he will not be able to draw strength from it.

His strength, his determination and his commitment to goodness do not matter at all, now, for darkness learned from its' mistakes; ah, that is the best part of the plan – darkness is proud of itself… It could not defeat the man in the past, could not break him completely; battered and bruised, he still went free.

He will not be free now. He will be controlled by the heart purely evil and dark and, resisting and tormented, he would still bend to its' will – he would do what darkness wants.

Serves him right for two centuries of humiliating his master.

If you cannot control the Dark One, give him to a dark-hearted witch to play with.

A perfect plan.

A man on his knees, in the snow, screaming with pain, torn apart by loss and madness; so much better, so much more satisfying for the darkness than that silent, peaceful dagger.

The night grows still, the magical forces stop raging. The clearing is deserted again.

Darkness closes the doors of the vault; its' gloom shall not be disturbed any more.

The Dark One is restored to the world again, and his dagger and his power will not return here, ever.


	34. Chapter 34

34

A ride through the night – desperate, hurried rush through winter forest, filled with misty shadows, birds and beasts silent, frightened. Horse's hoofs stomping frozen earth; snow falling from branches, noiselessly. Her body rigid with tiredness and strain, mind dulled by physical efforts her journey requires, concentrating only on holding the reigns, on keeping the track, on staying in the saddle. Mind so dull she almost manages to hold herself together, almost manages not to think… And then it comes.

_His scream. A flash of his agonized face. His harsh bark: 'Run!'_

And herself, running.

Leaving him behind.

A seizure of her heart, paralyzed with aching for him, oppressed with guilt.

A stop at the tavern by the road: to change horses, to give herself some rest. A hot drink; cup held in icy hands, fingers trembling. Cheerful noise of human voices, drunken exclamations, laughter, flickers of fire on walls covered with hunting trophies; normality. Her body, relaxing, her mind, stupefied by warmth and comfort. Mind so woolly she is careless enough to close her eyes, to sigh tiredly… And then it comes.

_Him, kneeling on the snow. His eyes, pleading. His upturned face. _

'_Run!'_

Herself, running.

Arrival to the royal castle, worried faces around her, eager questions. Inability to say anything properly, to explain anything for, every time she opens her mouth, it comes again.

_His scream. His pain. His contorted body. His dead eyes._

'_Run!'_

Certain knowledge that there is nowhere to run – she is running from herself.

Arrival of _that_ woman to tease and terrify everyone. A surge of hate in her heart – hate so fierce as she'd never thought herself capable of. A spark of rage, and shame at herself: this is what she wants, this witch – her hate, her rage, her humiliation; all these dark feelings, that's what she thrives on, that's the source of her power.

Her power is different – or used to be.

She has no power left in her, none at all.

Getting into the room the royal family provided her with; finding herself alone.

Slipping on the floor, without getting her cloak off, staring into space.

Sitting there for a long time, deadly tired, knowing that she would not be able to sleep tonight – she will not be able to sleep ever for, the second she'd close her eyes, it will come.

_His scream. His fingers scratching the snow as he crawls at the feet of his tormentor. His last look at her. No reproach, no reproof: just pain and death._

'_Run!'_

Who are you fooling, little princess? It will not just come again and again: it will never leave.

Giving in to it: closing her eyes, making herself remember the scene – all of it, feeling the smothering weight of pain, hers and his, biting her clenched fist so as not to scream, sobbing dryly, and then, finally, finding herself able to cry – quietly, with hissing sobs, to cry for herself and for him, racked with guilt and sorrow. Hearing his voice, the one he used to have, saying 'This crying must stop', sternly – she used to calm herself with that, before. She cannot do it anymore for, sitting there on the stone floor in the strangers' castle she finally _senses_ her loss – deep and real, senses it sharper then when he disappeared into the light in front of her eyes.

She did not cry then, for he was not lost then – not to her. She must have been in shock or in denial then, to be so calm, so sure he could be brought back. But now, when he is physically back, she feels she really, really lost him. That man, that man she loved, that man who abducted her and stole her heart, and gave her his heart to replace a void in her chest, that man is gone. There will be no easy laughter now, no dark moods, no quips, no snapping, no hesitant touch of fingers on her cheek; no fatherly smile, no face thrown back in abandonment of passion; no hope in his eyes, no reassuring grip of warm hand. Something is changed in him, forever. He died a man, and came back the Dark One. He died in the name of love – and dark magic brought him back. He died to save his son – and his son is gone now. He died free and full of inner strength – and now he is a slave to evil, defeated and trodden on.

He is so much _darker_ now than she ever knew him. Darkness is not in being given to evil – darkness is in being open to despair. While you still hope, you can fight evil. She has never seen him completely bereft of hope. He is all open to darkness now – not just naked – skinned… alive.

And she did this, all of this, herself.

She killed his son.

She brought him back into the life of agony and horror.

She gave him over to darkness.

And there is no way, no way at all that she can help him – she cannot go near him, for it would only pain him more and give _that_ woman a tool to torture him more. And she cannot reach his heart, not really, for he is a different man; and his heart is incased in ice of despair, and cannot be moved; and his heart is closed to her, for he doesn't want to give her futile hope, and he tries to protect her – too keep her away from him.

He tries to save the only soul he loves by driving her away.

In that, he is not changed.

He still loves her, he still tries to keep her free of himself, uncontaminated by his closeness – he wants her to be happy; he wants her to be alive. She knows all this, because no way can he close his heart to her completely; she still feels his every breath, for with his every breath her chest heaves in pain. Yet, though she'd much rather be imprisoned by him, dragged through dirt with him, miserable with him, and dead by his side, she does not fight him, now.

For years and years she didn't listen to his wisdom and experience – opposed them with her youthful stubbornness, her blunt convictions. She knows now, only too well, how deadly her stubbornness proved to be.

She would listen to him, now. She'd do his bidding. She'd cast no clumsy spells on him.

She will not make all this harder for him.

She does not sleep that night – she simply cannot. In the morning, she busies herself with helping around the castle. She tries to be useful.

She doesn't talk to people much, and they don't try to speak to her. They sense certain remoteness about her, as if she is not really here with them. And they are right: she is there, with him. Not assaulting, not tugging at his heart with their ever-present bond; just present there, somewhere at the edges of his twisted mind, saying, silently: 'I love you'. Nothing more – no promises, no urging, no hopes, false or blind. Just this simple, unchangeable, everlasting truth.

'I love you'.

Sometimes she thinks he can hear her; and on such days her own pain is less sharp – she can almost relax; until it comes again, of course.

His scream. His agonized face. His fingers clutching the snow as he doubles in pain.

Days come and go, busy with nothing of importance; lonely nights come and go. She has become almost invisible to people around her – she is so absorbed in her inner dialogue with him.

Sometimes, when things become unbearable, she whispers to herself the words that he, dying said to her once: _'A hero, who helped your people… A beautiful woman, who loved an ugly man – really, really loved me. You see goodness in others, and when it is not there, you create it… So when you look in the mirror, and don't know who you are – that's who you are!..'_

And she looks in the mirror, and she says, aloud: 'I don't really know who I am, not any more. I don't know if any of these things you told me are still true. I only know two things… You are _alive_, whatever the price. We breathe in the same world; and as long as you breathe, I breathe. And I love you. Whatever the price'.

And then comes a day she secretly dreaded – a day when the good people around her remember who she is, what her connection to him is, and want to use her as a tool to reach him. And she is forced to accept their need – she has to… She is 'a hero, who helped her people', after all. But everything in her screams against it.

He _told _her to stay away. And she'd have to disobey him.

As they get closer to his castle, this place where she first loved him, everything comes back – she recalls every stone, every crack in the wall; every speck of dust in this place she loves as much as she loves him. She remembers their talks, his quips, his spinning, his sad eyes – she remembers his lips on hers, and the way he drew away, protecting his magic – his only tool to find his son. How angry she was with him then; how well she understands him now.

How full of dread is her heart.

How full it is of silly hopes.

When they enter the dining room, the very room in which they first kissed, and she hears the rattle of his spinning wheel, her heart lurches towards him.

When she sees his shape, huddled in the cage, muttering to himself, her heart breaks.

Tentatively, she walks towards him and, as it happens with caged beasts suddenly approached, he shies away; alarmed – disturbed. She can barely see him in the shade, but she feels his trembling. It is impossible to tell if he recognized her – if he remembers her at all.

He must have suffered so.

She steps closer, and looks at him closely; his clawed hands fingering the wheel, his rumpled hair, obscuring his face; the golden gleam of his skin.

Her lizard-wizard. The man she fell in love with.

She _earns_ for him so. She missed him so.

She loves him so.

There is nothing in the world she wants more then to rush into his cage and to crush him to her – to rain his face with kisses, to draw his lips to hers and kiss him deeply, chasing all darkness away – changing him into the man he still is, inside – into the man who is not gone, as she sees now – just imprisoned and ridden with pain.

She can save him, right now. She can kiss him with all the love in her heart and break his curse – here, in the same room where she first attempted it; it should end here, where it started.

And he would be free.

And he would be hers.

And Bae would die, for his father would have no magic to sustain his life.

She cannot do this to him. Never.

She reaches to touch him with her glowed hand – she knows that if she touches his bare skin with her own, all her restrain would be lost; she doesn't trust herself.

Suddenly, his hand grips her trembling fingers, and he lifts his face, and meets her eyes.

His golden eyes, sad and pained and wise and completely human. Full of love.

'Light', he says, looking into her stricken eyes.

He is speaking about light magic, of course – he is answering her question about ways of defeating that woman who stole him from her. But she knows he is telling her something else.

He tells her what she means to him.

He tells her that he has forgiven her.

He tells her that he is not defeated. That hope is still alive somewhere in his tortured soul.

She can hope now, too. He has given her leave to hope.

She bites her lip, fighting back tears.

His eyes leave hers, his lids drop – he looks sideways, shutting her out, again, withdrawing into his own world. But it doesn't matter – not any more: she had seen the light he spoke of – seen it in his eyes.

It helped her so, this meeting with him that she dreaded so much. With one look he brought her back to life – he had given her a new memory of him to replace the visions of that horrid, horrid snow-covered clearing where she found him and lost him.

She goes away almost her normal self – if she is the same for him, perhaps she can be the same for herself, too.

She waits for the new curse with hope, with anticipation of change – change for the better.

And then the curse comes but, meddled with by _that_ woman, it comes tainted. Everyone wakes up with their most painful memories intact.

And she wakes up to the memory of him dying – killing himself in front of her as she stood and watched, frozen. She wakes up to the memory of his pain, and her voiceless screaming. She wakes up to fall on the ground with a dry sob, over and over again – to feel his love still alive and calling to her, despite his absence.

She wakes up to mourn him without a grave.

A year had passed, and all that is still as fresh in her mind as if it happened a second ago.

A year had passed, and she knows, the dreamer and the practical parts of her alike, that her sense of connection to him is an illusion – her grief makes her imagine his call; her grief makes her imagine things.

A year had passed, and she did nothing to find him – that means it is impossible. A year had passed, and she saw no hope; that means there is no hope.

She wakes up with certain knowledge that he is gone, and she is alone.

She wakes up dead.

Yet still she carries on; knowing she owes it to him. Remembering his eyes, pleading with her to go on. So she has to go on, waking up in the morning, forcing herself to eat, opening his shop – she has to go on as he went on during the first curse, when he believed – he knew – her to be dead.

He did it for thirty years, and now, after just one year, she cannot imagine how he managed not to lose his mind. She feels hers slipping away – slowly, you can barely notice, but she knows things are wrong with her. For instance, when this pushy midwife came to the shop, asking impertinent questions, tearing her soul apart with light-hearted compassion… Well, all that was highly unpleasant, and it must have upset her very much, for she does not remember the woman leaving – she does not remember if she actually sold her anything.

She is so confused.

She walks up to one of the mirrors on the wall of the shop, and looks at her own sad face, and hears his voice: _'I know that you are confused about yourself, so I am going to tell you… So when you look in the mirror… That's who you are..._'

She looks in the mirror, and can't get rid of the memory of her talk with the midwife.

'You must be Mrs Gold?'

'No, I am… not'.

'Oh, is Mr Gold around?'

'No. He is… He died'.

Damn that woman.

He died. He died. He died.

'_I lost him. There's nothing more to tell, really'. _His voice, from so many years ago, telling her of Bae. His sad face, his golden skin, hair falling across his brow, eyes cast down.

He died.

She lost him.

Nothing more to tell.

She closes her eyes, and looks into her heart, this sad place where he is forever alive, and whispers: 'Please come back and tell me who I am. Please come back, whatever the price. Please. Please, just be alive'.

His imaginary face lifts up to her, and his eyes smile, sadly.

'I love you', she adds.

He doesn't answer – he looks down again.

She opens her eyes, and wipes tears from her cheeks, and turns to face the next customer.

And her heart keeps saying, over and over again: 'Please, be alive'.

But her mind knows that what's done cannot be undone.

She heard him say it, cry it over her, and she now knows it to be true.


	35. Chapter 35

35

A newborn child comes into the world with a scream – a cry of anguish at the sudden change of everything he knew, at the need to leave behind warmth, comfort, cozy darkness and complete harmony of the womb for the shivering cold, the harsh light, the painful grip of alien hands. Just a second ago he was the center of his own universe; now he is a small bit of flesh in a huge world filled with danger. So he screams, frightened, screams regretting his urge to be born at all – the urge he could not resist – screams wishing to return to safety; screams for help.

A man reborn comes back into the world with a scream – silent first, as the soul that rested in peace is stirred by the rush of fresh blood, getting audible soon, as blood thickens and turns into flesh and nerves to feel the coldness of dark night and fear the dark forces at work; turning into a howl later, as the mind clears and returned consciousness understands what is happening – and remembers the price of what is happening – and knows who is paying the price.

He knows, for he knows the blood that woke him from eternal slumber.

This blood is dearer to him than his own blood.

This should not be happening. 'No, no, no, no', he screams, inside – unable to stop the process he didn't start; pulled out into the world of the living with an urge he cannot resist, an urge stronger than midwife's pull; aware that his peace is gone forever and that he is in the grip of alien hands – in the power of somebody's ill will; somebody's blind love.

There is no coming back from this. There is no one to ask for help.

A newborn child calms down as his mother takes him to her breast; he calms down, soothed by her softness, her warmth, by the sweaty and milky smell of her skin. They make a covenant, a newborn babe and his parent: she promises to continue to be his shelter from all dangers of the world, to be forever there for him, so that he continues to be the center of universe for somebody. The moment a baby is born, his parents' life is dedicated to him, and to him only.

An old life for the new life – it is a fair exchange.

And this is a natural order of things, the way it should be. And even if parents cannot provide the child with safety he needs, even if they die, or prove weak of spirit, they must give everything they have, had ever had or would have to redeem this weakness – to make the child believe that world is a safe and happy place, because your parent takes care of you.

And even if to succeed the parent has to die, so be it: a life for a life, like in the beginning of things – price is the same, the exchange is fair.

And this is a natural order of things, the way it should be.

When a child dies to give life to his father, nature shudders, overturned.

An old man should not be brought back with the death of a young. A man who gave his life to save his son should not be resurrected by this very son's death.

The whole fabric of existence is torn by this.

His human heart, just reborn but immediately burdened by all its' former knowledge, is broken by this.

His magical body, created out of sacrificed blood, senses something else that fills him with dread. His flesh was given to him in a way abhorrent to nature – there is not a human bone in his body now. His flesh is all magic – blood magic, initiated by darkness. He is not his own master anymore: he belongs to the force that gave him flesh. It is a miracle that his mind and heart are intact – that they feel horror and regret at what happened; that he feels the love that makes all these things painful for him. A body made the way his is made should have been indifferent to everything but its power.

There should be no love in a body whose essence is darkness.

Yet he is full of love, which makes him squirm in pain – it is so alien to him now.

Yet he is full of love, and he knows where it comes from – from the look of her eyes, filling with tears as she sees him; from the sound of her voice as she calls him with this absurdly gentle name – the name of a man he used to be; the name of a man he still _is_ to her.

She looks at the dark shadow he has become, and still sees the man she loves. _That's_ what makes his heart beat, and love, and break.

She loves him, and that makes him _himself_.

She loves him, and that means there is hope for him – that there must be a way to redeem the abhorrent way that he was created anew. She used to urge his possessed flesh to regain humanity; now she will help him _acquire_ humanity. It is possible; there is nothing love cannot do – it is the most powerful magic in the world.

She loves him, and he loves her, and there will be time for that, but first he'd do what any parent must do when the covenant is broken – when his child has come to harm. He must save his son – he must break the deal his stubborn boy made with the dark power possessing his father. A life is given, a soul is promised, but this must be undone – he is a king of loopholes, he will find a way for, with this new body, he gained new knowledge and immense power. He used to be hindered by human concept of impossibility. He knows now that there is no limit to what he can do; he can turn back time, he can change the order of things – he can split bodies, he can absorb souls – he is a force akin the wind or the sea now. One body dies so that other can live, the deal says; one soul comes to join the darkness as a hostage to ensure the deal is unbroken… No way poor, limp, desperate shepherd holding the power incomprehensible for him could have found a way around it; he would have been unable to do anything about it. But he _is_ the Dark One, now, and the Dark One can do anything, even trick the force that created him. A life is not lost when the mind is alive – he knows that from experience. His boy's mind is what his boy _is_; he must preserve that; he will find a way to give him a living body, later. No way his boy's soul is going into the pit of darkness he called his father from; no way is his soul homeless so that it can be taken by darkness. They will share a body, this body that is as much his as his fathers, for he gave it up so that his father can be flesh and blood again.

She will understand.

She knows how much his boy means to him – how much he _loves_ him; she knows how much this love is part of all the love in his life – his love for her.

Love is the most powerful magic in the world. It comes with the steepest price.

But the Dark One can pay it. He can do anything.

The Dark One can do anything, but only if he is free. And the moment his freedom is taken from him, the moment the selfish, unstable, jealous girl whom he spurned once takes hold of him, for no other reason but to please her vicious soul, is the moment when he walks through the gates of his personal hell.

He saved his son's spirit, and that was the last act of his free will – the last act of the omnipotent force, powered by darkness, yet driven by love. The moment it happened, the moment his boy's mind entered his mind to share it and cloud it with his loves, intentions and regrets, his freedom ended – his self became diffused.

The omnipotence ended, not just because he is controlled with the dagger – if the wicked girl knew _what _he is able to do, she could have still made him do all the things in his power; thank goodness she doesn't know. The omnipotence ended because with Bae inside him, he became that much more human again – that much more a man to suffer and fear and make mistakes again; that much more a man to love and hope and fight, again. His boy had always gave him strength to remain a good man – he always helped him; he has done it again.

The omnipotence ended because he was reminded of his human weakness – of his vulnerability. Human or magical, he never served any master. Even when he was the lowest of men, he still went free, and strove to escape all bonds that tied him; he tricked his way out of the army, he revolted against the duke and overcame him, he gave himself to darkness so that he'd always have the power to freely do what he thought best and just and right. And now, when he escaped the prison of death, when he was ready to oppose his new dark power with his stubborn love, it was turned against him – his love became the very way his enemy reached through his defenses. 'Kill her', he was told. And, but for the distracting presence of his son inside him, he would have done it – and went on living with it, for he cannot die…

Could there be a clearer image of just how powerless he became?

The omnipotence ended; his freedom was stolen, and this symbolic act feels like a physical thing – as if a hand is strangling him, gripping his throat, giving him only so much air as to continue breathing. As if strange eyes are staring at him, standing there naked, defenseless, possessed with greatest of powers yet unable to be his own master; smiling at his frustration. He is completely exposed to his mistress; all of him on display, as if he is an animal in a cage.

Well, he _is _an animal in a cage, now.

He is a plaything for the wicked girl who never had toys when she was little; curious and ruthless, she is ever ready to prod him with a stick, as children do with frogs – to pull off his wings as if he were a fly. All just for pleasure of watching him shudder and gasp in pain.

He thought he knew what humiliation was when he was human – when people sneered at him, called him a coward, when his wife defaced him and soldiers trod on him and made him kiss their boots. He thought he knew humiliation when his own son was ashamed of him; when his father called him a worm. He had no idea what real humiliation is like, then – he does now. This fickle, careless kid, she can do what she pleases with him. If she'd tell him to take off his clothes and dance in the great hall of the royal castle, he will. If she'd tell him to cut off his arm, he will. If she'd tell him to bed her, he will. If she'd tell him to open his mind to her, he will – he'd have no choice. There is no way to fight her.

And she is doing it all for fun, really, for she does not really _need_ him – 'the brain of the smartest of men', says the spell she is building, but it is not as if he was the smartest man in the world; the spell works as the wizard builds it, and he is smartest for her because she has chosen so, and she has done it because watching him suffer gives her trills – watching him in her power gives her trills; she has found a way to avenge him for not loving her when she had this stupid crush on him, her teacher, all these years ago.

She brought him back from the dead, she killed his son, she chased away his love – all for fun… All because this girl is envious of everything around her, eager to steal what others have and, most of all, jealous of love.

Yet there is one thing she is not aware of, his ruthless jailor. She does not realize that every pain she inflicts on him is a blessing in disguise: it makes him feel human, and it takes him farther from the monster reborn in the vault, and closer to the man he used to be. She does not realize that every moment he spends talking with his son, safe inside him and alive as ever, is healing; he was never closer with him – he was told he'd be reunited with his boy, and now he truly is. She does not understand that, even though he had to close his heart to the call of his love, for fear of driving her near and harming her, he still feels her; why, sometimes he can actually hear her, talking to him, quietly, saying just one phrase: 'I love you'. And he knows he is still himself – a difficult thing sometimes, when there are two minds living in one body.

He knows he rambles, he knows he is losing it sometimes – it is an effort to hold two souls together, it is hard even for the most magical of bodies. Yet inside, bizarrely, he never loses hope. He is full of his love, glowing quietly, waiting for a miracle – working to make this miracle possible; and he is full of Bae's love too, because the boy is just as insistent in his wish to find his Emma as he is to reunite with Belle.

And there comes a moment when all his pains are momentarily healed, and all his striving for goodness is rewarded – She comes, and he gets to see her magical eyes, filled with tears but full of love, and he gets to feel her warmth, and to touch her trembling hand; he gets a chance to tell her how much he loves her, and that there is still hope. And, despite all his inability to reach her as fully as he would have wanted, he gets to see that she understood him – his message reached her, and consoled her.

The sudden spark of light in her sad eyes – this is something no wicked heart can take away from him.

He did what was necessary – he told the good ones how to fight the witch; and when it became clear that to do it they'd have to go back to the world with no magic, Bae mentally slapped him on the shoulder – he understood that the new curse would take him to Emma. 'I knew you'd do it, papa!'

And then he smiled. And he smiled back.

God knows how it all looked to anyone who happened to be watching them.

But then his son, being the rush boy that he is, did a rush thing – when the curse was approaching, he took over and stole from them the memory potion they needed; poor boy, he did not realize the importance of their memory being intact.

For when the curse came, and they woke up, they were back to where they started – in that moment of horror in the darkness of the vault, when father realized that he is coming back to life for the price of his son's death. The Dark One, knowing his new power and the horrible source of it; burdened with a piece of humanity tormenting him from the inside – burdened with guilt at having failed as a parent; the boy in him, confused and scared, constantly questioning: 'What happened? What shall we do now?' None of them remembering the progress they made throughout the year – none of them remembering the force of their love – of their hope.

He forgot the look Belle gave him on the clearing – that look of love.

He forgot the sound of his human name on her lips.

He forgot how she came to him, and spoke to him through the bars of his cage, and how her magical eyes shone with that constant, everlasting love for him; and, having lost that memory, he lost his self.

He feels her love, but he feels no call from her; her love seems darker – all sadness, all guilt, all loss – no hope at all.

What hope could she have, if she thinks him dead?

He forgot the light that sustained him in his captivity – he remembers only the pain, the mindless cruelty of the wicked heart in whose power he is thrown.

And the pain is a hundred times stronger now, when there is no consolation.

And his tormentor's power became darker now for in this new world where no one knew her she became bolder, and her mood changed, and her greed and desires grew more intense.

And she found new ways to torment him.

To be touched by the hands whose touch repulses him.

To be touched by the poisoned breath; feeling those sneering, cruel lips so close to his face he could sense their warmth.

Seeing this mellow gleam in her eyes, going all dreamy on him now that he looks human. That girlish crush of hers, turning all dark and dangerous now.

Feeling her evil mind going all over him as palpably as if she touched him with her hands.

Feeling his skin crawl every time she walks into the cellar where she keeps him – in the dark, in a cage, like an animal.

Knowing he is powerless. Dead to the world – dead to _her_. Imprisoned, bereft of hope, humiliated, victimized – completely open to each and any whim this mad girl might have.

He thought he knew what humiliation was, when he was the lowest of men. He was sneered at, called a coward, his wife left him, his son was ashamed of him, his father despised him.

But he was never raped.

And now he is – mentally as yet, but every time she smiles and licks her lips at him, he knows she'll have her way.

And he'd do her bidding.

And live with it afterwards, for he cannot die.


	36. Chapter 36

36

A piece of golden straw – a tiny broken stem gleaming dully as she turns it in her fingers.

The memory of his hands, lightly touching the wheel; the smooth rattle of its' spinning; and straw, a lot of straw, collecting in the basket at his feet. He'd spin a long continued tread, and it coiled at the bottom of the basket like a sleeping snake. And then there were those short, tiny stems – bits gone unnoticed as he cut the tread, falling on the floor for her to sweep. They were a nightmare, these little pieces – even when she was done cleaning and turned to walk from the room, she'd always notice one more of them, stuck between floorboards or under the carpet, winking at her playfully as its' maker would, and she'd have to come back and collect it, cursing inwardly. He never cared for them – when she'd come and ask what to do with these cuttings, he's wave her away. 'Forget them, it's just rubbish', he'd say, and return to work. She ended up collecting them in a big sack – she just couldn't throw away such a lot of gold – such a lot of magical gold made by him. A sack of gold that could feed a village for years. A sack of magic that was too mundane for him to care what happened to it – he had bigger things to do.

A sack full of tiny golden straws.

And now they found such a piece of straw here, in this town. Found it in a storm-cellar by the farmhouse none of them remembered being there before, found it in an open cage with a spinning wheel in it.

A tiny bit of straw, appearing out of nowhere a year after his death.

A tiny piece of straw.

A sign that he is alive.

Of course it could mean nothing – there were others who mastered the craft of spinning straw into gold before, why not now? It might be something he made a long time ago, and it got somehow lost, stuck between floorboards or under the carpet... But, holding the little straw in her hand, she knows – she feels his touch lingering on it; his recent touch. She handled so many of them in the past, she could tell the ones he just made from the old ones. They grew somehow… cold the longer they were left on the floor; just spun, they were pulsating bits of magic – they became just oddly shaped pieces of gold later.

He spun this straw recently – this very morning, it seemed.

He is alive. He is here, in this town.

He is_ alive_.

And she is scared.

She thinks of all the things she told herself over these past weeks here, after waking up under new curse: of how her failure to find him means that he is truly lost; of how she must not listen to the hopeless hope living in her heart – it is not really hope, it is her denial. Of how his love she still felt must be just her heart's delusion, its' feeble attempt to keep itself from breaking completely. Of how she must be mad to sense him so acutely; and how she must discipline herself to gradually let him go.

She remembers her fervent prayer, her last spell directed into nothingness he left behind. 'Please, just be alive. Whatever the price'.

Well, she is not mad, or in denial, or full of deluded false hopes.

He _is_ alive.

What was the price?

What had she done?

And, if he is alive, why didn't he reach her – why didn't he let her know? Why is their bond so weak – what is holding him back?

Something terrible must be happening to him if he cannot reach her.

She knows the place where they found it, this piece of straw – in the last days it has become a place where she invariably ended her daily walk; it might have been the same for the whole past year, she just doesn't remember. She walks the town before going to bed, as he used to – she needs it to calm her mind, at least to some extent. And her feet always brought her to the field at the end of which the farm stands – without her conscious effort, as if on their own accord.

She liked this field – quiet and deserted, bleak and cold. Perhaps she liked it because it was one of the few places in town not directly associated with him, for her – everywhere else she'd go, she'd remember him with painful vividness, for they have been there together. Not this place – not this field. It was empty of memories and, staring at its' snowy surface, she could think of him without shivering with pain – without blinking away tears. Just think of him, imagining his heart resting in peace, somewhere unreachable for her, yet; unruffled, calm, as this snow. Waiting for her to join him, when her time comes.

And all that time, as she stood there thinking of him, he was there, under this snow, in the dark, in a cage – suffering; alive, yet not calling on her – remote; he might as well be dead.

_What_ was happening to him?

She hardly listens to people around her, discussing different versions of events. They believe the farm belongs to the witch, and he must have been her prisoner. How did that happen? To imprison him, she must have got hold of his dagger – that was the only way; and how was it possible, if his dagger was lost with him? How did he come back? How did he break free – and did he, or someone else took him? These questions are important, of course, but she cannot really care for technicalities now – she needs to be alone to think: something is nagging at her brain, telling that if only she could concentrate, she'd remember – she'd understand. The pirate says that she went to search for him with Bae – but she cannot remember a single thing about their quest. So what happened? Apparently they did bring him back, but how? She needs to be alone to check his books – his secret, dark books, books he always hid from her but, after he was gone, she gained access to them: apparently his things decided they were _her _things, now, too and some of the magically hidden ones revealed themselves, forbidden books amongst them.

She needs to be alone to concentrate on reaching him – without holding herself back, now that she knows he is alive and in preserving their bond she is not feeding her madness.

She hardly notices the presence of the pirate whom they left to guard her – she is too busy searching among the dusty volumes, looking for the one she feels must be there, the one that will answer all her questions. And she is too busy urging her heart, prompting it to reach farther and wider – urging it to connect with him, to touch his soul with hers.

If he really is free, he'd come to her.

And then, finally and yet suddenly, it is upon her – the feeling of his presence. She can feel him, physically feel him, right there behind the door – he has come!..

God, she'll see him again – she'll see him right this moment!..

And then a man crushes through the door, and it is not him – it is his son; her partner in the quest, if they'd believe the pirate; just as baffled as she is – not remembering a thing.

They rush him to the hospital, they ask him questions, yet her mind is not really on all that, again. She is trying to understand. How could she feel him so strongly if he was not there? Could she have deluded herself, yet again? She was so sure…

She returns to the shop alone, leaving Bae in the hospital, to continue her search for the necessary books. Trying to stop her heart from despairing, from losing hope again; trying to regain her self-belief.

The book literally jumps at her; she was staring at one of the shelves in the back room, and she could have sworn it wasn't there a second ago, yet here it stands now, its' jacket dusty, its' title misleadingly innocent: 'History of Magic'. Could be anything, but she feels it is the one – worn leather seems to glow from the inside.

She takes the book from the shelf, and opens it with trembling hands – leafs through it hurriedly, cutting her fingertip in her haste. Finds the relevant page. Reads.

And her heart fills with horror.

She knows what happened now – what must have happened. Someone must have died to bring him back to life – it is all written here, clearly. And it must have been Bae… Or herself?

How is that possible, if both of them – if the _three_ of them – are alive?

And – that is the question that is most grueling for her – how could she let it happen, like that? They must have followed instructions from the same book – she must have read that same book. How did she allow it to happen?..

She is staring at the book, staring at the page telling, in detail, how the Dark One is to be resurrected if he ever dies, her elbows on the table, her head in her hands. She sees the letters and the symbols, but she cannot understand.

And then it comes.

_Clearing in the forest, silent, covered in snow._

_Glowing doors of the vault, moving._

_Dark figure emerging from the opening._

_His sad eyes._

_His scream. His body, crouching in the snow. His agonized face. His pleading look._

'_Run!'_

_And herself, running – crushing through the branches of the winter forest, horrified, ridden with guilt, ripped apart with his pain._

She feels this pain, now, but it is a thousand times stronger – no pain remembered could be so strong; something terrible is happening to him _now_, this very instant. Something splits him apart, something tears bones and blood from his body; something dies in him. And she feels it, too – she is dying with him, too. There is searing pain in her chest, as if a blade is going through her, opening a chasm of darkness.

And, blinded by this pain, she _sees_ him.

Clearing in the forest.

One body splitting in two. One magical, one mortal – dying.

Father, kneeling among wet grass and fallen leaves, holding the hand of his dying son.

Dying with him yet, finally, coming back to life – getting stronger as life seeps away from the younger body given over to him.

Wishing to turn it back. Wishing it more than anything in the world.

Voices, words, last words, echoing the words said so many years ago – obliterating the guilt and the pain of these lost years, bringing on new pain and new guilt.

'_I don't want to let you go' – 'I need you to'_.

The quest of so many years, fulfilled and proved futile.

Reunited. Lost to each other.

Tears on his face.

Grip of their hands.

One hand, getting slack. Lifeless.

Only one of them left now.

Human.

Broken.

A void in a place where there used to be a heart.

Trembling fingers closing dead eyelids.

Wordless whisper.

'_My beautiful boy…'_

Darkness.

Many things are happening in town – people hurry around, spread terrible news, gather their wits and theirs forces, plan revenge and future action – look at their loved ones with renewed affection, chastened by loss. People weep, and embrace each other for support.

And amongst all these, in the back room of his shop, a girl lays on the floor, senseless – having lost consciousness as his pain gripped her and almost stopped her heart along with his.

And much later, when she comes to her senses and people come to her, offering condolences, she is barely listening, torn with one thought foremost to her.

Among all these grieving people there is one man who grieves the most – who had lost the most; who lost everything.

And he is the only one who is alone.

_She_ should be with him; not because she'd really help him – nothing can really help him now. She should be there because it is impossible, unthinkable that she has left him alone at this time – that she did not find a way to be by his side.

She should be with him.

And she cannot.

She failed him.


	37. Chapter 37

37

The bars of his cage hold immense interest for him – they fascinate him quite. He is staring at them: rather thin, fragile, criss-crossing at mishappen angles, almost all of them slightly twisted, for he has given them much shaking over the time he spent inside. Not in the hope of breaking free – the nature of his imprisonment is magical, and it is not the cage that is holding him. The cage is just a formality, a visible symbol of his predicament. It has no other purpose other than to put him in his place. No, he shook them simply in frustration, in a show of emotion just as formal as the presence of these bars; for his jailer knows all the depth of his anguish without him showing it.

He is not shaking the bars now. He is not moving at all. He just sits there, in the darkest corner of the cage, staring at the repeating pattern of crosses, noting every twist and bend, trying to insert some deeper meaning, perhaps even some magical pattern, into their grid. The fabric of existence is a continued thing; what we perceive as a break is probably just a complicated fold; all things are connected. If there is a meaning to his life, twisted and torn beyond salvaging, than there must be a meaning to those crossed bars, a meaning to every bit of rust, to every scratch, to every shape and shade.

He is not hoping to achieve anything by his staring. Even if he would find a meaning to the pattern, he'd do nothing about it. It's very simple, really: as long as his mind is occupied with this pointless task, he can keep other thoughts at bay.

There is little light penetrating the gloom of the cellar – probably through the cracks in the roof. In this light the bars are just visible, so he keeps staring at them. Trying to shut his mind.

Not really succeeding; they still come – the thoughts, the images, the voices; all these voices that were assaulting him so fiercely, not so long ago – their echo is still there, in his closed mind, rippling over the surface like waves from a distant earthquake would ripple the surface of the ocean.

That morning – yesterday, was it just yesterday? – when the wicked wench came to shave him – to draw his blood, really, to invade yet another part of his life and contaminate it, and the boy inside him was, finally, so appalled by her insinuating familiarity that he urged them to break free. 'I cannot – she has my dagger', he said. 'Oh, but _I_ can!', he answered, taking over.

That rush through the forest – breaking of branches, sharp smell of rotten leaves, dull daylight; frenzied, improbable freedom. What did he hope to achieve? Where did he run? He could not run far – his body was not magical – was not strong enough to hold them both for long.

They changed, again.

His boy's voice, screaming at him: 'Let me take over – it is Emma, I need to see Emma!'

The witch's voice, screeching at him: 'Come back! I summon thee!'

_Her_ voice, quietly pleading with him: 'Please come back'.

So many voices. But her voice, the softest, called stronger than them all.

Coming up to her door – knowing that he'll see her, soon, he'll see her right this instant; the irrational faith that all would be well, if only he'd see her.

He has become too much himself as he run to her door – with the boy silent, that wicked creature could sense him – she almost managed to pull him back.

So the boy took over, again.

What did he hope to achieve? He knew nothing, remembered nothing; he could do nothing. He had just worn himself off, trying to do what he wasn't meant to do.

But at least he saw his Emma. At least he told her things he needed to.

And then…

No.

He would not think of it. He cannot.

That twist in the grid, up there, second bar from the right – what a peculiar shape. Was it always like that, and he just never noticed?

That voice, his voice. Silent forever.

No.

Trying to shut his mind, closing it on itself; trying to save what is left of him.

And that evil thing standing there, staring at him. Gloating.

Taking in his every shiver – his every rugged breath.

And then it comes – the scraping of gravel against the shovel; dull thud of gravel thrown on the coffin. Louder than thunder, making his ears burst. Coming like a heavy blow, crushing him on the floor. Making him reel with pain.

Again. And again. And again. Beating the life out of him. Cutting him from the light.

Locking him there, inside the grave.

And she keeps staring. Transfixed. Fascinated. Breathing shallowly in her loathsome excitement.

Yet he is past caring, past feeling her stare.

He just stays there on the floor, where he fell. Curled into a ball. Unable to even cry – no tears would come, nothing to release the pain. Forced to look at his life, as it ended now; forced to look back and admit: it was meant to pass. Everything he did was in vain.

He was not meant to be a father; that much is certain. He was warned against it; cursed over it. He was meant to never see his boy: his life was the price allowing his son to be born. He did not pay the price, he stayed alive, and spent the rest of his life running from his creditor. His fate is a harsh broker; it wanted a life – a life of one of them. When his son was but a boy, he was meant to die in a war; meant to fight and to die as his father refused to. He kept bargaining with fate – he bought his son some time. Yet in the end, things came to where they were meant to come. One of them had to die – it was inevitable.

And his boy died because his cursed father could not.

A life spent running and fighting. A life spent suffering and inflicting pain. All for nothing – all just to buy some time.

If he fought and died then, on that long-forgotten war, he'd have died a happy man. But he wanted to be a father…

He was not meant to be a father, yet that is all he was. Not much of a husband. Not much of a lover. Not even a monster, really. Just a father.

And he failed. And, as he fell, he involved everything he ever touched into his fall. This town. These people who live here – his family.

Her.

All that, all this world to be destroyed just because he wanted a child – just because he wanted to love someone as his father never loved him.

Love is the most powerful magic in the world. It comes with the steepest price. And he hadn't done paying it, yet: he'd live to see everything he loved taken from him – disappearing as if it never existed. And it all will be his fault; and so he cannot even alleviate his pain with a thought that at least his boy lived – he loved, he had a son; he had _a life_. He cannot console himself with this, for everything his boy loved, everything he held dear will be destroyed now; it will all disappear and come to nothing.

And amongst all this destruction he'd stand watching, petrified, for he is immortal; and the evil soul who holds power over him would stand by his side, urging his destroying hand. Denying him death. Denying him peace.

How many times in his life he thought he was cursed – damned? He never _felt_ it, truly.

He feels it now.

He closes his eyes, shutting himself from the world. Welcoming his realm – the darkness.

And then, suddenly, light breaks. Doors of his prison fly open, and he is flooded with light; harsh, cold light of a winter day, but light nevertheless.

_She_ has come to him.

She entered this horrible, gloomy place, and she stands there at the end of the stairs, and looks at him – with such pain, and grief, and with such love – such hopeless love. And, looking into her stricken eyes, he knows that she remembers, now – she remembers how she came to him as he was caged in his castle, as he remembers it, too; _that_ curse is broken for them.

Oh, what a difference there is between then and now.

'I will never stop fighting for you', she told him once. How can he tell her that it is time to stop, now? She'll achieve nothing.

'It is futile', he tells her, shying deeper into the darkness.

Yet she doesn't listen. When did she ever listen? She just stands there looking at him with her magical, magical eyes, and holds her hand towards him – urging him to hope. To believe. Urging him to live.

And, as it always is with him and with her, he is unable to resist her. Something – a flicker of light, a glimmer of hope – stirs in his heart. And he reaches to take her hand, his fingers trembling. And he feels her grip, and hears her sigh, and a shiver comes across his rigid shoulders.

He thought he'd never see her again, and here he is, holding her hand.

There _are_ miracles in the world.

A scene comes to him – a scene from the past; two of them in the prison cell, in 'her room', as he sent her away. Her bitter, disappointed words: 'You were freeing yourself!.. You just couldn't believe I can love you!..' They both thought that was the end of them, then, yet it was just a beginning. She could perform a miracle for him, then – she could kiss away his curse. He did not let her, and she performed her miracle differently – slowly, gradually, insistently she brought to the surface the man she loved in him. He was free. He believed in their love.

But this man died. And, because he died, things changed, forever.

She fell in love with a human possessed by dark power. If she kissed him then, the darkness would have been gone, leaving his human body free.

She loves a dark shadow now – dark substance invested with human soul. If she kissed him now, the darkness would go, leaving his soul homeless.

She cannot free him. There will be no true love's kiss for them, ever.

If she'd kiss him now, he'd die.

And, even though he'd welcome death, he knows she'd never do him this kindness. She'd never kill him with her own hands – with her magical kiss.

She loves him very much, but she will not deliver him from pain. Not like that.

She seems to sense this for, contrary to what he would have expected of her, she doesn't rush into his embrace – she is not even trying to kiss him. She is hesitant – she looks at him hopefully, as if waiting for his advice: 'What shall we do now?' She is asking for the price before rushing into magic.

Good girl.

If only he knew what to tell her.

If only he had time to be with her, at least for a little while – to warm himself by her presence – for he is cold, so cold now; to heal his broken self by her great tenderness – for he is bleeding, inside, as if from an open wound, and he never noticed it until she came. But the vicious creature who owns him is never far – she comes again, sneering, waving his dagger around, as if he needed to see it to feel the power…

And she is chased away from him, crying – terrified. Convinced she is powerless to help him.

'Run', he ordered her, once. And run she did.

He taught her well.

And over the next few days, as his crazy mistress unfolds her plans and he is sent around town on ridiculous tasks to do her bidding, that image – her, running and sobbing; her, watching him in despair as he walks the main street at the heels of the witch and dumbly follows her orders; image of her defeated and hopeless – her, who had never lost hope – stays with him. And it helps him to build his own strength – it fills him with anger, with a wish to fight.

He locks away his loss – locks it deep in his heart. He cannot afford it to rule over him. He cannot just stand and watch the witch's spell building; if he'd do so, then it means that his boy died for nothing. Even if he's destined to fail, he still has to fight. He must try and stop her, for he knows one thing: if she succeeds, some parts of the world he knows might remain intact. The witch would destroy her sister, but some of the people he knows might survive. All of them, perhaps, bar one: Belle. If the witch ever travels in time, she'd ensure two things: that her sister is never born, and that his love is dead. She uses her to torment him, here; but she'd kill her, there in the past, for there are two things she wants – life of a princess, and him.

She wants him for her sick, evil self. She'd make sure he and Belle never meet; she'd make sure Belle doesn't exist.

And he cannot let that happen.

So he endures the games his jailor plays with him; he plays along. She tells him to dress up – he does. She tells him to keep her company, to act polite guest at her dinner table – he does. And, as she mellows in his presence, and her eyes go soft as she looks at him, this wretched, mad girl, he remembers the time when they first knew each other – remembers how she looked at him then, eagerly, with a glint of obsessive passion in her eyes.

He knew strong women in his life, and he knew evil women. Yet never, never had he encountered anything like this – the possessive, jealous heart, so completely devoid of love that it knew no way of earning it; she could only demand and take things forcefully if they were denied her. She was so youthful and innocent then, but still he felt it – this… sickness; the profundity of evil in a heart so young was terrible, its' inability and unwillingness to fight darkness incomprehensible to him. He was the Dark One, but he knew what gave him strength to live – his love for his son, his desire to right the wrong he did him. So when Cora ripped out her heart so as not to be open to love, he shuddered in horror, but he understood; at least she did love, if she was afraid of her weakness. But this girl, with those hopeful, yearning eyes, this nervous giggle, imitating his own, those gripping fingers reaching towards his hands – she revolted him. She was so pretty, and he was always gullible to beauty; yet her he wouldn't touch with a stick. Her looks didn't matter, for her soul was empty, waiting to be filled with nothing but want. He must have felt the danger – he did feel it, otherwise he'd not have spurned her. Yet how could he have let her so near him in the first place? How could he have been so careless? He knew she had great power. How could he not foresee that she'd turn it against him?

But then, he had other things on his mind. A curse to built, a quest to commence.

A love to find.

And, as he eats his tormentor's food and drinks her wine, as he watches her cheeks redden under his gaze, and her bosom heave at his closeness, he thinks: this is her weakness. She wants to be loved; she doesn't know how to earn love – she just wants it handed to her on a plate. May be if she was given what she wanted – teased with what she wanted – it would break her defenses.

He is the Dark One. He can do anything. Surely he can spin the girl's head enough so that she'd lose control?

So he plays along with her. He nods and smiles.

She killed his son. Surely he has the right to break her heart?

He _hates_ her.

It will be such a pleasure to step on her empty heart, and crush it like a snail.

Thus thinks and plans the Dark One, confident that he himself is immune to feelings.

But the human in him is strong and, the moment he touches her, and hears her sobbing sigh of joy, his stomach turns, and bile starts to rise up his throat. Everything about her – the feel of her skin, her smell, the moaning sounds she utters – are repulsive; he is disgusted, he is physically unable to bear her greedy touch. And it is to his revulsion that she reacts with rage and scorn, not to his feeble attempt to grasp his dagger; he knew the attempt was failed, knew it the second his skin touched hers, and crawled.

The Dark One cannot fool the girl whose kiss makes him shudder in disgust.

He takes her screaming calmly; he overreached himself, but he has no regrets. At least he made her suffer. At least he humiliated her – that wave of pain she emanates as she realizes that he tricked her was worth it.

What has he come to, if such petty victories are precious to him? How low did he fall?

She orders him back to his cage, and he walks away. He feels her rage and her hurt, physically pushing him – prodding him onwards.

And, as he stumbles across the dark yard, the enormity of what he just did hits him.

She killed his son, and he _kissed_ her.

He stroked the hand that holds him in slavery.

He did not kiss Belle, as she held his hand in a cage, but he kissed this creature.

He kissed a woman whose foot hovered over his son's dead body, ready to step on his face… What madness prompted him to do it?

What darkness possessed him to even conceive such a thought?

Bile rises up his throat, yet again, and he brings his hand to his lips, trying to wipe away her taste – he is shaking all over, wanting to get out of the skin that touched her. His legs give way and, as new wave of her fury reaches him – as she weeps and rages at him, standing there, in the house, with his dagger in her trembling hand – he falls on his knees, filled with dread.

He committed a terrible mistake.

He'd pay for it in blood and tears.

He stands up, heavily, digging his fingers into the mud.

And he walks to his cage, as he was ordered.


	38. Chapter 38

38

In every instance of her life that was connected with magic – that is, with him; in every instance of her love the dreamer in her prevailed: she hoped, she insisted, she rushed into things. And in those same matters her practical side always tried to rein the dreamer in – to control that little fool, to wake her up to reality. She became accustomed to this division of their roles. Yet now, after she was chased away from his prison, as his captivity was proved to be unbreakable, as he remained in the power of darkness despite all her love and all her relentless hoping; after he lost what was dearest to him, after he was forced to threaten little children and fight his family, and she just stood there, staring, unable to help him in any way… After all this the dreamer in her felt defeated; pained, frightened – paralyzed. And she expected the practical girl to gloat – to nod wisely and say: 'Accept it – you can't win. There is nothing you can _do_'.

Instead of which, her practical side surprised her. She held her hand, mentally, she brushed away all her complaints and weeping and said: 'Nonsense. There are plenty of things you can do. You don't have much magic, but you have brains, and you can use them, and help to fight for him – for his cause'.

And she listened to her practical side. She searched his books, looking for answers. She gave the good ones necessary information. She tried to share with them part of her knowledge – his knowledge, and her knowledge of him.

That helped – she felt useful; she felt included. She was, for once, not a freakish girl silently fighting for her monstrous lover – she was part of the team of heroes fighting for her lover. Of course they were not thinking of her and of him, as such, as they worked; they had their own agenda. They all wanted to stop the witch; to do that, they had to free the Dark One. But nevertheless: for once in her life she was not alone in caring for him. And that felt good.

Yes, all that activity helped. But something else the practical girl kept saying every time she caught a sight of a tear in the dreamer's eye helped even more. 'Things are so bad, they could only get better. It will end well', she said.

And this irrational logic, delivered with eerie inner calm, helped.

Even when she saw him in the hospital, even when she saw his bloodless face, his dead, bleak eyes, even as she heard his harsh warning – 'Belle, go!' – even then it helped. It was somehow different from that cry of his – 'Run!' It didn't sound as desperate – as final.

And, as she felt herself falling when the witch hit her with some minor spell, she thought, with this same eerie calm: 'He'll catch me'.

And he did – and she got to feel his arms around her before she passed out. She saw a look of love, saw dark light glowing in the dept of his gaze, like embers under the ashes.

'He loves me. It will end well', she thought, as her gaze darkened.

As she opens her eyes a while later, she is slightly disoriented – confused. She is in a hospital, on one of the beds, but fully dressed. She panics, momentarily, remembering all the time she spent in this hospital – all the time she lay on the same bed, not knowing herself; remembering the time when, as she was slowly recovering, as he came to help her and brought his love and hope with him, the queen came to curse her into the wretched insecure little slut, and plunged them into a new bout of misery.

Strangely enough, the queen is standing in front of her bed, again. Her dark face is mellowed and somehow uncertain.

'You came to, at last', she smiles.

She nods, suddenly frightened. Something must have happened – some sort of resolution came, otherwise the queen wouldn't be standing here so calmly. Yet, if things ended well, why isn't he here? Surely he'd have come to her, if things ended well?

The queen reacts to her panic with uncharacteristic attentiveness. 'Don't worry, he is fine', she says hastily. 'Everyone is fine. We won'. She pauses, hesitating. 'They are waiting for me. I just came to… I suppose I came to apologize. Things between us weren't always smooth'.

She raises her eyebrow – the queen certainly has a knack for understatement. But Regina isn't done yet. With a slight furrowing of brows she reaches under her coat and draws from there something long and heavy and dully gleaming.

Her heart stops, for an instant.

'I came to give you this. I suppose you are the perfect person to hold it'.

And with that, she places his dagger on her bed, and turns to leave.

She looks at it, blankly.

'Where did you get that?..' Her voice is weak.

'From the witch, of course'. Said from the door, without turning.

'But why doesn't _he_ have it?' There is panic in her voice, now.

Regina turns her head and gives a familiar twisted smile: 'I got it first'.

The door closes, and she is left alone with the dagger. Staring at this thing that brought them so much suffering. A thing so important to him.

Her heart is beating, fast, as she jumps out of bed and sways, for a second. There is nothing physically wrong with her – she is just terrified. That thing, that thing that holds him a slave, that thing that brought him so much suffering – it was taken from him again. He must be mad with anger and frustration. He must be hurting horribly.

She must take it to him, at once – she must give it to him, now.

She grabs her handbag, which was carefully placed on the side-table by one of the nurses, and turns towards the dagger. She is apprehensive at taking it. Then, with a decisive sigh, she gingerly grabs the hilt.

It seems strangely cold. She'd have expected such a powerful thing to greet her, somehow – it changed hands, yet again, it must be important. But it feels… blunt and dumb, silent and closed on itself. It doesn't want to admit it has a new owner.

She almost drops it back on the bed.

She doesn't want to be its' owner. It already has an owner.

She practically runs across the town, the dagger stuck awkwardly into her handbag; she is running towards the shop – she knows he must be there; this is where he feels the happiest, the safest, and that is where he'd go now, when he was saved and freed, but humiliated again.

Coming up to the front door, she slows down. She must not upset him. He is so hurt, so traumatized now – he would want things to be as normal as possible; he wouldn't want to see her flushed or crying – she must appear before him as much a happy princess as it is possible, after all they have been through.

She breathes deeply, and bites her lip, and opens the door, listening to sweet tingle of a bell, for hundredth time in her life, it seems.

Sounds different when she knows he is inside.

There he is – standing behind the counter with his back to her, just as he stood once before, when she came searching for him, not knowing herself yet.

'_Excuse me, are you Mr Gold?.. I was told to find you…'_

He turns towards the sound of her steps, and their eyes meet. And, just as it did then, his face crumples with tenderness – his eyes brim with tears.

And she knows it is him.

She found him.

He runs across the room, crushes her in his arms.

It feels so wonderful to touch him – to smell his skin, to feel its warmth; to hear his frantic heartbeat. To feel the tickling of his hair on her cheek pressed to his neck.

It feels so wonderful to touch him, and yet it is so horrible to sense how tense he is; how deeply hurt, how confused, how unsure of himself.

'I knew you'd come back', she says, every inch the princess he must remember from their past. Trying her best to be bright and cheerful for him; unable to stop herself from sobbing into his neck, into his hair.

Alive, he is alive and he is here, in her arms. Just as in dreams from which she woke up sobbing; just as in dreams for which she castigated herself, as it was so obviously hopeless to wait for his return. Just as in dreams, but real, lost and found, physically here, and it really is him – his skin, his smell, his hands gently clasping her back, it is his body, which she knows so well, better then her own, it seems; his voice, answering her in half-sob, half-sigh, telling her that after all these years he is still amazed that she believes in him so.

'I love you. Always have', she says. And she wants to add 'And always will', but there is such sadness in his eyes that she checks herself. There will be time for love-talk, later – there will be time for everything after things are set the way they should be – after he is truly the man he must be.

She takes the dagger from her bag and holds it towards him.

There is a very strange look in his eyes – he hesitates, unwilling to take it. And, when he finally does, he is holding it awkwardly, turns it over uncertainly, as if checking the name on the blade; as if not knowing what to do with it.

And then he gives it back to her.

'I am, now and forever, yours', he says, and handles over the greatest power she was ever entrusted with.

Not the power over his dagger – the power over his heart.

The dagger feels differently in her hands now – not inert or sinisterly silent any more; not stolen or taken – given. It becomes slightly warmer. It knows it is not in stranger's hands now – it is in possession of someone who is bounded to its' owner, forever.

He knows that to place the dagger in her hands is the same as not to part with it at all.

Then why, oh why is he still so sad, so tense?..

It's not his unspeakable loss. It's not his recent suffering and humiliating deliverance. It is something else – something bottled inside him; some secret thing – some secret thought. And it is so like him – to be holding on to something while opening up to her.

He has changed so much, but inside he is still just as he was many years ago in his castle – trying to be remote, whishing her to guess what's wrong without him telling her. Talking in riddles; only his riddles are so sad now.

She doesn't really need him to say the magic words 'marry me' – yet she asks for them, still, because his little princess would; she was always stubborn, she wanted things discussed and confirmed.

She asks for the words, because she feels that is what he needs – a lovely peaceful scene: a shy proposal, a smiling blushing bride, asking for confirmation of his intent; normality; humanity. No magical deals, no mystical understanding of each other's hearts: just a man and a woman who love each other. Words spoken; things named and given a life.

And, having said her 'Yes' and walking into his embrace, she is suddenly overwhelmed with the sharpness of feeling him, really _feeling_ him, so close. He was lost to her forever, he died in front of her, he came back in dark shadows and he chased her away from him, and here he is, running his fingers through her hair. It is impossible, but it is true; they paid the price, and now they have their miracle; _she_ has _her_ miracle – his body in her arms again: to touch, to kiss, to give herself to. She never confessed, not even to herself, how much she _missed_ him – not his love, which she always felt; not his soul, to which she felt connected: she missed _him_, the man, missed those hands, trembling on her shoulders now, missed this lined, old face, handsomest in the world for her; missed those lips, searching her lips and crushing them with a kiss; missed the taste of his skin, that skin she kisses and licks now, there on the neck, below the jaw, as he throws his head back with a gasp, as he always did – he loves it when she kisses this spot. She missed his voice, speaking her name in harsh whisper; she missed his tongue, darting out to trace the outline of her lips; she missed the heat rising up inside her as he brushes her breast, and his fingers gently nip her nipples through the silk of her blouse; she wants to feel his hands on her skin – she wants it now.

She draws back from him, for a second; she wants to look at his face, into his dark, smoldering eyes, dark light shining in them. She knows she must look wild, now – her hair dishevelled, her lips swollen, her eyes longing; yet he is in much the same state: his breathing harsh and uneven, his face flushed, his tie askew, his shirt half unbuttoned – did she do that?

And there is no sadness about him now – none at all.

God, she'd do anything to chase his sadness away, forever.

She reaches her hand to touch his, to lead him towards the back room.

'Come', she says.

He follows, giving her a sideways look – turning his head to stare at the 'Open' sign at the door – turning it over to 'Closed'; snapping his fingers once, and locking the door.

She smiles, and he smiles back.

'_What else can you do?' – 'Anything. There are many perks to being the Dark One'._

Many perks, yes. And uncountable drawbacks.

She doesn't want to think of that, now.

She just wants to touch him, everywhere her hands and lips would reach. She wants to feel his touch, everywhere, her skin is screaming for him, it went without him for so long; her insides constrict in anticipation, her body is unbearably hot – waves of heat ripple through her, making her nipples painfully sensitive so that, when his lips close over them, she cries out; she is all over him, tearing at his clothes, reaching for his bare skin, moaning; saying something – 'please, please, please' – in hushed sobs, as he takes off her clothes, kissing every inch of skin he frees, his hands shaking, his eyes mad, his lips trembling. His hand reaches to touch her, and she pushes forward, impatiently, taking his fingers in, throwing her head back, gasping; 'No, no, not your hand, I want _you_'; sitting on top of him, fumbling with remaining clothing, touching him; gasping; straddling him, feeling his want, pulsating inside her; feeling his hands grab her breasts; moving over him, slowly, whishing to absorb him though her skin, so that he is hers, all hers, never to be taken from her, ever again; looking at his face, tense, drawn, all eyes, he is struggling to control himself; gripping his shoulders as his body arches towards her; exploding as his eyelids drop, as they dropped then, in the light, and as he sighs out her name; exploding again as he shudders, and as he fills her insides with his semen, hot, fills her with his self, alive, alive!..

They stay on the camp-bed for a while, both stunned; her legs and arms firmly locked around him, hands clasped behind his back. If only she could hold him like that forever, to shelter him from all harm; then all would be well.

And then, suddenly, terrifyingly, his body begins to tremble: a low tremor first, it quickly turns into incontrollable shiver. His teeth clutter, as if he is terribly cold; and then he starts crying. Silently first, with awful hissing sound; loudly later, sobbing, drawing away from her, bringing his knees up to his face, covering his face with hands, his toes curling, his body rigid, shaking.

Going through something unutterable that happened to him; reliving the nightmare.

She holds his shoulders, shaking with him – crying with him.

It passes, finally – as all things pass, even the most horrible things.

He stays on the bed, spent, curled into a ball; she is pressed to him, holding him to her, stroking his back, saying just one thing – repeating just one word.

'Darling. Darling… My darling…'

Then:

'Tell me. You have to tell me. You can tell me everything – anything…'

'No. No. No. Nothing to tell, really… Nothing to tell'.

He gives a rugged sigh, and reaches for her hand.

Fingers entwined, they stay silent until sleep comes.


	39. Chapter 39

39

He cannot sleep.

He stays on the camp-bed in the back of his shop, Belle cuddled by his side, sleeping quietly, holding his hand, her hair spread across his chest; her breathing is even, her eyelashes flutter softly in her sleep as dreams speed through her mind. Peaceful dreams, it seems – she smiles in her sleep.

Let her sleep; she needs rest – she was exhausted, her strength stretched almost to the limit by all recent events; he could see it from her tense face, shadows under her beautiful eyes; he could sense it in her hysterical gayety; in her desperate desire.

Let her sleep, let her get her much-needed rest.

Let her have what he cannot.

He cannot sleep, and he cannot rest, for every time he closes his eyes, he returns _there_: into his cage, into his cellar filled with creeping shadows and bleak thoughts. Returns into _that_ night, the night he overstepped his mark; returns to see the trapdoor open, and a dark figure emerge against the paling sky of dawn; returns there to hear her steps approaching, to hear her quick breathing; returns to see her glazed, blank eyes gleaming at him from the shadows.

He cannot sleep, he cannot close his eyes.

He looks at his bride, sleeping by his side; looks at her dark lashes, at her parted lips, at her delicate hand resting on his heart. This hand, this hand that he loves so much – how it trembled as she reached out to touch him; how hungry her lips were; how feverish her look…

He averts his eyes, and stares at the dust dancing in the sunbeams shining in stripes through window-shades. The sun is setting; it will be dark soon. Night will come soon, and she'd wake up, expecting his kiss – his touch. Her eyes would look at him with longing; her fingers would reach to caress his face.

And he'd feel it again – this urge to draw away. From _her_ hands, those hands he loves so much; from _her_ eyes, the eyes that always brought him light; from her lips, that promised him salvation; from her longing, now tainted…

_These hands touching his face, pressing his dagger to his cheek. These lips whispering into his ear, brushing his skin._

_These fingers holding his dagger up._

His insides constrict, his heart gives a painful start; he has to swallow, hard.

All hands, all fingers of all these girls, handling the tool to control him; menacingly, self-righteously, winningly, gently, hesitantly, carelessly; handling his dignity, his freedom, his heart, the symbol of his self; handling it around, passing it to each other as if it was a toy, a plaything.

'_Go to your cage, doll'._

Cold sweat covers his brow. His breathing is shallow.

He feels sick.

He cannot sleep.

He cannot rest.

He cannot forget.

He cannot forgive.

He cannot breathe the same air this creature does.

He feels the presence of his dagger in the next room.

It calls to him. 'Why don't you take me?.. Why don't you use me? I am yours, and we both know it. Whatever you said, I am yours, for she agreed to be yours; everything she owns belongs to you, and you knew it well when you asked her to be your wife'.

He tries to close his mind, to shut his ears to this silent call. His tries to turn his mind to the only thing that can console him – that could always console him: her love.

He pictures the moment of their reunion. Her careful steps as she entered the shop; her tense back as she closed the door – so collected, so courageous, his beautiful princess, getting ready to face him, not really knowing what to expect. Her eyes shining as he kissed her – her lips quivering with approaching sobs – her tears warm on his skin.

Talking to him of love, and holding that _thing_ in her bag all that time.

Handling it to him with proclamation of his freedom.

How generous.

Dropping it carelessly on the counter by her handbag as she rushed to kiss him; forgetting all about it, her thoughts turned to love and happiness and future.

Forgetting what it must mean to him. _Not knowing_ what it must mean to him.

Forgetting what he has lived through.

Forgetting his loss.

Not knowing what it means to lose a child.

How can he blame her? She didn't have to live through this, and thank God for that. She has no way of knowing how it feels. None of them have; all of them, all of the good ones, they all think they lost many things in their lives; they knew separation, they knew fear and pain. Yet none of them ever held their dying child in their arms; none of them had to stumble through the wood away from his dead body, urged forward by the hand that killed him; sneered at; powerless to fight back.

None of them had to close his heart to love, so that his loss wouldn't kill him.

His throat catches, momentarily – he cannot breathe. His eyes go dark.

None of them knows. And yet they dare to judge him.

All of them, feeling so superior and self-righteous, coming to 'stop' the witch – to 'help' him. Unprepared, deluded, pompous fools, full of declarations, unable to use their wits.

Emma, coming to fight the witch with her pirate along – daring to show her face in front of him in a company of the man who replaced his son in her heart; so soon, he just died, he was just buried, and already she forgot him…

So soon.

He _enjoyed_ drowning the pirate – that man who stole his wife, and then stole his son's love.

He enjoyed Emma's humiliation as she saved and kissed him, and lost her powers.

Served them right.

'How could you stand by my side after all that I've done', he asked Belle, just now. 'It wasn't you, it was Zelena', she said; believing the best, as always.

'It wasn't always Zelena', he told her. Speaking the truth – trying to explain.

And there she went with her 'promise me you wouldn't hurt her', again – as always.

Unwilling to understand. Not ready to listen.

Joining them in _their _readiness to judge him; _taking_ his dagger; assuming she does have a right to hold it; joining _them_ in their opinion that he has to be restrained.

Saying empty well-wishing things, just as Regina did in the barn when she dared to try and control him – dared to put him in his place.

None of them knows _what_ it feels like to be in his place.

None of them lost a child.

None of them lived a slave.

None of them felt this rage, this physical frustration of having the greatest power on earth and yet being controlled by stupid, ancient piece of steel with your name on it.

None of them understands, she least of all, and that is a good thing. He would not wish her to feel a fraction of what he felt, ever.

It is just that he cannot hear these empty words, again.

It is just that he cannot forget how she took the dagger, and then dropped it, for kissing was more important.

Took it after the witch had been holding it.

Took it after Regina had been holding it.

How could she take it?

These girls. These silly, dangerous girls.

He grits his teeth; he clenches his hands into fists, disturbing her: she stirs in her sleep, mutters something.

His lips move as he silently calls her name. 'Belle… Belle'.

His eyes fill with tears as he looks at her lovely face, and his heart floods with guilt at doubting her, reproaching her, pushing her away, even mentally – daring to distance himself from her, even in his mind, after all they have been through, knowing the price they both paid for being together.

This girl, this girl he loves so much.

How can he love her now, when his soul is so divided?

He cannot love her while his life is poisoned.

He cannot love her while his heart is closed.

He cannot open his heart: his loss would still kill him, for nothing changed; his boy is still gone, this creature still lives, _protected_ by all the good people in town.

He cannot love her while this creature lives.

Slowly, delicately he moves his fingers to free his hand from hers; carefully, not whishing to wake her, to break her peace.

Slowly, carefully he stands up.

She turns on her side, burying her face in the pillow where his head rested just a moment ago. She inhales his smell; she smiles.

He must do what he needs to do – for her as much as for himself.

He covers her with a blanket and quietly collects his garments, scattered on the floor. Barefoot, he walks into the next room.

The dagger greets him, smugly.

'I knew you'd listen to me. I know you well'.

'Shut up. You know nothing'.

'As you say, master'.

His hand lingers over the blade, hesitant. If only he could avoid it. If only he could see the way to live without doing it. If only he could forget his humiliation and his loss.

He closes his eyes, and sees _those_ eyes again, looking at him through the bars of a cage.

He cannot. He cannot forget; he cannot live with it; he cannot avoid what he needs to do.

She'd understand.

This cursed thing, his dagger – it is right: he can take it, for she is his now, and everything she owns is his, just as everything he owns is hers. He can take it, and that wouldn't breach her trust. And even if not for this – God knows he did _not_ think of this when he asked her to be his wife! He asked her because he wanted to, for years; he asked her because he wanted to be human; he asked her because it is right for her to belong to him in normal, real way, not through magical deals of the past; he asked her because he loves her and, in his now endless fight to be a man, he remembers that is what men do when they love… Yes, even if not for this new magical deal they made between them, if he told her, if he explained, she'd understand. Even she, with all her goodness, would understand.

But he cannot tell her. He would not find the words; he would not have the voice.

Her mind should not be contaminated by such darkness.

And this thing, this cursed, soiled blade, should never smear her hands.

She should not hold it, ever.

This curse is his. This blade is his; his bloodied hands are fit to handle it – no one else's.

Least of all hers.

He takes the blade that belongs to him, and disappears in a cloud of dark smoke, only to appear in another place.

To look at a girl though the bars of a cage.

So similar and so different.

That night, the night when he overreached himself and stumbled across the frozen field, feeling her hate and want, knowing he'd pay for what he did, and pay dearly; that night when he stepped into his cage, mad at himself and frustrated. That night when he sat sleepless, awaiting her next move. And she came, snapping the trapdoor open, her figure dark against the pale sky; her eyes blank with determination, cloudy with longing.

She stood there in front of him, clasping his dagger to her chest as if it was a cross; stood there carefully listing for him all the things she would do when she changes the past – promising him everything he ever wanted; urging him that it was a good thing that he lost his boy, for nothing stands between them now – they could be together; begging him to love her; pressing her face to the bars, trying to kiss him; crying; running away when he turned his face so as not to look at this spectacle.

Mad, mad, mad girl.

Yet, as he listened, he could not help thinking of another girl begging him to forget about his son and love her.

'_It's quite simple, really: my power means more to me than you do'. _

It was the truth then – awful and painful truth. It was the truth now – ugly and painful truth. He needed his power, needed it back so that he could restore his dignity.

When she run away and he was left alone, he was shaking all over – invaded by her madness, exhausted by her assault, sickened by the sight of her; despising himself for ever touching her. He fell on his knees, breathing heavily, waves of nausea hitting him.

Vomited, getting rid of her food and her wine, getting rid of the memory of her kiss.

He sat there for a long time, trying to think straight – forming a plan. Acting on it, charming a tool that might help him, there on the dirty floor of his cage, littered with bits of straw that he spun during his imprisonment.

Knowing that she'd slip, sooner or later; he'd only have to bide his time, and seize the chance when she is distracted, when she'd lose control; knowing that, being so obsessed with him, she would.

Looking at her with different eyes the next morning; finding himself able to _joke_ with her. Finding the dark flame of dark hope warming him; thinking of his father and his lessons.

He walks into her cage, dagger in hand. He senses her fear – he can smell it.

He could almost pity her.

He is not enjoying it.

This is not the way he would have done it, if he had a choice.

He remembers her foot hovering over his dead boy's face, ready to step on it, and knows he has no choice.

He has to save his life – he has to give himself a future.

The blade cuts her body – plunges right through her heart, and she turns into clay, and crumbles to dust, gone without a trace.

He always wanted to kill someone this way; never tried it, though.

Feels good.

He walks out of the cage and stands in the middle of the room for a few moments, breathing heavily.

They say revenge is pointless – it never makes one feel better.

It does.

He walks through the town, calming himself; feeling the tremor gradually leave his fingers. Comes to the shop; enters through the back door. Checks on Belle: she is still sleeping.

He goes into the main room of the shop and looks at the dagger she forgot on the counter, the one Regina gave her, and his heart breaks with sorrow.

He never thought she'd have to handle it. It was not meant for her – it was meant for those other people. When he made it, this second, fake dagger, there on the sick-stained floor of his cage, he meant only to slip it to the witch instead of the real one, when chance would arise. He went around armed with it, waiting for this chance. And when it happened, when Regina defeated her and his dagger fell from those greedy fingers, he acted in a flash – when all the battered heroes were distracted, he took _his_ dagger, and left a fake one in its' stead.

Seemed like a good idea at the time, to leave a fake dagger for everyone to see; they'd never know there are two daggers now; they'll never look for the real one, and he'd keep it safe.

And then Regina took the fake, and tried to control him: silly girl, blinded by her victory, denying him compassion in her triumph.

And he made a show of accepting that, smiling secretly; let her have it and let her wonder why it doesn't work properly, if she ever dares to use it.

Served her right for all her continuous efforts to better him.

He went back to the shop, looking suitably chastened by all these events; he had to get there to hide his reclaimed treasure. He knew he had no time to make a proper spell to conceal it, for he knew Belle would be coming soon – he felt her waking up, felt her heart fill with hope.

He hid the dagger behind one of the mirrors and stood there for a second, looking at himself; trying to recognize his own face – trying to come to terms with his new life.

Knowing he paid so dearly for a chance to live it that it _must_ be possible now.

And then she came, holding the fake dagger never intended for her. Solemn. Self-righteous; urging him to be good and well-behaved. Unable to understand.

Wanting to kiss when he wanted to cry.

And he was trapped.

He should have told her the truth; she would have understood.

But he couldn't.

Too tired, too damaged, too abused; too pained to trust anyone but himself.

Not wanting to give her false promises – promises he'd be unable to fulfill. How could he promise her to be good and forgiving? It was beyond his power, however great it is.

He gave her the only promise of which he could be sure – a promise to love her forever. To belong to her, regardless of any magical tokens.

He asked her to be his wife, so that all his things would become, by definition, hers. So that she owns _him_, not some cursed piece of steel.

And she said 'yes', and she walked into his embrace, and his heart was flooded with his love and his guilt, in equal measures.

And they went to make love, leaving the fake dagger, the embodiment of his lie, of his heart, closed to love so that it could survive his loss, gleaming on the counter.

And his soul kept crying all the time his body gloried in her closeness.

And his body broke into sobs as he sensed that, even though he was free and had a chance to live, he would never be able to live and to love her while his heart is closed.

She urged him to tell her… Yet what could he tell her?

She shouldn't be told such things.

What she doesn't know couldn't hurt her.

He looks at his two daggers, as they lay side by side on the counter: so similar and so different.

Let them be.

He goes to his cabinet, the one in which he keeps the most important things, and places his dagger inside; seals it with every spell in his power – and his power is great.

He doesn't want to touch it again, ever. He hopes he'd never have to.

He takes the second dagger from the counter; it is a magical thing, too, it has inadvertently become a token of his proposal to her, and shouldn't be left unattended.

He comes through to the back room; quietly takes his clothes off. Lowers himself on the bed by her side.

She is so warm in her peaceful sleep; so soft and gentle; she smells so sweet.

He leans to kiss her shoulder, and closes his eyes, wearily; he is so, so tired.

He can rest now. He can close his eyes.

She stirs, shifting her body to be closer to him; opens her eyes, half-awake: 'Where have you been?'

He smiles, tapping the blade of the dagger, which he put on the floor by the bed: 'Brought you this – you shouldn't scatter your things around like this'.

She smiles, already falling back into sleep: '_Your_ things'.

He watches her sleeping face, feeling her peace quietly enter his soul, and whispers softly: 'No, Belle. No. This dagger is yours'.

She entwines her fingers with his.

He closes his eyes.

She'd understand.

She'd forgive.

He believes in her, even when he doesn't believe in himself.

She sees goodness in people, and when it is not there, she creates it. She made him a good man once; she made him whole once.

She'd do it again.

He can hope.

He can rest.

He can sleep now.


	40. Chapter 40

40

She wakes up to see the light of the pale morning seeping through the window-blinds; wakes up to discover that her arm had gone to sleep, and smiles at the absurdity of the phrase. Smiles at the reason of her discomfort: his head, resting on her shoulder, his face tucked into her neck as he sleeps, his soft breathing warming her skin. His arms are wrapped around her, their legs crossed; his face is so peaceful it is hard to believe it is the same man whom she saw yesterday in such terrible anguish – in such deep misery.

She holds her breath, cherishing the moment. He is here, quiet and warm, resting by her side. When was the last time they had such a peaceful morning, she wonders? Not often; their life was so troubled, so complicated even in the best times. Yet there was a morning very much like this one – the morning after the night they spent together when he returned from the island.

The morning of the day that he died.

She shuts her eyes, chasing the thought away, but she cannot control the shiver that runs through her body, and her shiver disturbs him – he stirs by her side, turning his face; his eyelashes quiver as the last dredges of sleep leave him, and she holds her breath, again, not knowing what she'd see in his eyes when he opens them. Sadness? Pain? Tiredness, which one night's rest couldn't ease – which seems permanently settled on his soul?

He opens his eyes, looks at her face, and smiles. His gaze is mellow.

'Belle', he says, drawing her closer to him. 'My beautiful bride'.

She bites her lip, torn between laughter and weeping; it is somehow painful to see him so lighthearted – painful, and slightly unreal. How things can suddenly be smooth and calm when they were always, always troubled?

He furrows his brows: 'What troubles you on your wedding day?'

'What?' He'd never lose his ability to surprise her. 'My wedding day? Today? So soon?'

He gives her his twisted smile. 'We've wasted thirty years. Do you wish to wait longer?'

She blushes. 'No, of course not. But...' – she sits up, suddenly agitated, her heart fluttering. 'But there are so many things to do! I must get a dress, I must tell my father…'

'Shhhh…' – he puts his finger on her lips. 'Later. There will be time for all that. There will be time for everything'. He draws her face closer to his, and plants a kiss on her brow, and then his lips move down, to touch her eyelids and, finally, he finds her mouth – opening her lips with gentlest of kisses, catching her sigh as she melts under his touch, feeling his arousal against her thighs, waking to that low, almost painful longing to be filled with him – a longing to which she succumbs, instantly, opening her legs for him, closing her eyes; giving herself to him and receiving him in return; him, her greatest treasure.

They get up, much later, and he gently teases her about her clothing, damaged on the evening before in the frenzy of their reunion; of course he has something pretty prepared for her instead, as he always did.

He goes to make some tea, and she paddles barefoot to follow him.

'I am hungry', she says, smiling, feeling silly and girlish and sated and happy. 'Can you magic us some food, Dark One?'

He starts, imperceptibly, and instantly she freezes, regretting this lame joke.

But he seems unflustered. He turns to her with a smile, teapot in hand. 'Ready to abuse your power so soon? Well, your wish is my command'.

She blushes deeply, looking at a tray with perfectly served breakfast – jam and juice and toasts and what-have-you – appearing on the table behind his back.

'I am sorry', she says in a very small voice.

He walks up to her, touches her cheek with his fingertips. 'Don't be. It's a pleasure'.

She looks up at him forlornly, and he nods, reassuringly. 'Eat your food. We _do_ have many things to do'.

She eats in a kind of haze, not sure she is hungry any more. He seems very light, very calm – nothing disturbs him. He butters his toast, he sips his tea, he makes some light conversation; he smiles; his _eyes_ smile as well as his lips.

She looks at him with silent wonder.

What happened to the man who shuddered with sobs in her embrace the night before? What happened overnight to make him relax so – to give him such peace?

Not just her presence and her closeness, surely. She knows how much he loves her, she knows how much she means to him, but she lives in a real world: a man who went through so much, who had lost so much and suffered so much cannot find peace and happiness overnight, even if it was a night spent by the side of the woman he loves.

What else happened?

Yet she really has no time to think of that; even though he solved the problem with her dress and her flowers with a wave of his hand, there are still many things to be done. She does need to talk to her father; they are estranged, but she owes it to him to at least inform him of her life-changing decision.

Meanwhile, he has to arrange some sort of legal representation at the scene of their union.

Before they left the shop, he did one more thing which nags at her mind as she walks the town on her various errands: gently, but insistently he put the dagger into her bag. 'It is yours, do not forget it – it is not a thing to be left behind'.

The dagger rests in her bag now, making it unusually heavy – and not just with its' weight. She senses its' presence by her side. It feels like suddenly acquiring additional limb; it is very uncomfortable though, strangely, not as difficult as she expected. So many dark things were done with this dagger, yet it feels almost… innocent. It doesn't seem to be a thing of power – of _dark_ power. It was given to her with words of love, may be that's why it is so… normal. It was given to her, and the next moment she gave herself over to the giver: she is his bride now, soon to be his wife – all her things are _his_ things now, and the other way round.

Did the dagger change hands, at all?

Perhaps it belongs to both of them, now.

And perhaps it is a good thing.

But still she doesn't understand his insistence that she carries it with her. It is simply not practical. What if she loses it – what if something happens to her – what if it is stolen? It must be hidden, as it always was. And with this intent she goes back to the shop and tries to give the dagger back to her future husband.

And he behaves very strangely about it. He is unwilling to take it; he doesn't listen to her when she says it is simply unwise to walk around town with such a powerful thing.

'Why don't you hide it in a secret vault', she says. 'Oh, it is just for the darkest and dangerous magic', he answers. 'And this dagger is not dangerous?' 'No, because I trust you', he says, and changes the subject, trying to engage her with details of their wedding.

Liar.

She knows him so well, she can _always_ tell it when he lies. He is lying now – something is wrong with this dagger, something is wrong with him; something he is not telling her.

And it hurts – it hurts to realize that, even after all they have been through he is still holding something back from her.

Yet she lets it pass.

He has been through so much; she always tells herself she can feel him, feel what's happening to him, but she cannot even start imagining what it really feels like to die – to lose a child – to live a slave. Whatever he did to ease his mind, whatever he chooses to keep from her – let him do it, if it helps him to be sane; if it helps him to be happy by her side.

She tortured him enough with her doubts and her insistence on goodness. She pushed him into the arms of death itself with her relentless well-wishing. He can do without her preaching now; she will give him time. If he wants to tell her, he will. If not – let him keep his secrets. He is a man and a wizard – he is entitled to secrets.

Every time she learned his secrets before, she lost him.

Never again.

So she lets him change the subject, and talks about her visit to her father, telling him that he gave them his blessing, omitting the parts about his horror and grief; omitting his resignation, his soft question: 'There is no point in me objecting, is there?' Omitting her answer: 'It has been decided', answer deliberately phrased exactly as her wish to follow the Dark One was, long ago, in her father's castle.

Omitting her adding: "You'd better come to the wedding, father, to give me away. He _is_ the Dark One: you don't want to upset him'.

'But he does your bidding?' Asked with such horror, such distrust.

'Yes, and I do his'. Answered with pride: in her choice, in her fate, in her readiness for it.

All these confrontations, hurts, crimes forgiven but not forgotten; all these clashing egos and personalities. What a way to start a family. Yet is it so different from the life at the royal court that she was brought up for? Same matters of power, same doubts, same compromises. There is only one thing in which she is sure, in all that emotional mess – his love.

He _loves_ her, and that is all that matters.

He doesn't lie about _that_ – she can see it in his eyes, sense it in his nervous kiss.

And that is enough for her.

Lying or confused, troubled or scheming, he is alive – with her, in her arms.

And that is all that matters.

Perhaps heroes would say differently; perhaps they would insist on integrity.

But none of them had to endure what he endured; and none of them lived through the same pain as she did. And she is not a hero, not really.

She is just a girl who loves him.

She is the wife of the Dark One. Or soon will be.

She is on his side. Forever, as she promised him all that time ago.

When the new crisis arises in town and he is called to help, her heart nearly stops with irrational fear. Not again! She wants to take his hand and hold him back, refusing to let him go. Every time things look good for them, he receives some magical summoning, and is gone.

She will not survive losing him again.

But she holds her tongue, knowing he _has_ to go – it is in his nature. The least she could do is come with him, trying not to let him out of her sight.

As if having him in her sight helped before…

They all gather at the police station, musing about the empty cell and the witch's escape, and suddenly she senses his acute discomfort.

He is uneasy, and as the queen accuses him of 'doing something' to the witch, his defense – 'Belle has my dagger, she would curb any homicidal tendencies' – sounds slightly lame.

Naturally she steps up to him. 'It is true'.

People around nod and shrug their shoulders and decide to look at the security tapes.

And she _feels_ him freeze.

She looks at him, questioningly.

He gives her unreadable sideways glance in return.

She turns away from him to look at the tape, which starts running and instantly blurs.

And she senses magic happening – his magic.

Something small, almost innocent.

A trick.

The tape shows the witch doing herself in – crumbling to dust on the floor of her cell.

People around are discussing the event and its' consequences; he gives them advices; there is general atmosphere of teamwork in the air.

She keeps her silence and doesn't look at him.

She needs some time alone – she needs to think.

Yet still, as they leave the police station, she comes up to walk by his side and silently clasps his hand, and gives it a squeeze.

It is his turn to look at her questioningly, to arch his brow. But she says nothing – she is too confused. What she really wants to say is something that she is ashamed of – it is so unlike her… She is _not_ sorry that _that_ _woman_ is dead. She would never say 'Yes, I wanted her to die', if somebody asked her outright. She certainly never wanted him to kill her. But she is not sorry that she's gone. That woman was awful, wicked – she was deeply evil. And she couldn't imagine her living amongst them – walking those streets, talking to these people. That woman who sneered at him as his son was dying; that woman who kept him in a cage; that woman who made him attack his loved ones; that woman who mocked his love; that woman who denied him hope and dignity… What would every meeting with her _do_ to him?

What would it do to _her_? She shudders every time she remembers her visit to the shop, let alone all other occasions on which they met. _'You must be Mrs Gold… Oh, I am so sorry for your loss!..'_ Sneering, evil, sick witch.

No, she is not sorry that she's dead. But this is not the sort of thing that princesses say aloud, so she just smiles at him and says: 'Will you mind it if I go for a small walk, now? I need to think… Must be the nerves; I am a bride, after all'.

He nods his understanding. 'I will be in the shop'.

Such normal, normal conversation. Like a real, proper family.

She goes to the only place in town which she can call hers – the library. For her it is the same as his shop for him – a happy, safe place. He gave it to her as a token of love; this is where he first spoke to her openly; this is where she asked him on a date. Yet still it is her place, not his.

She walks among the bookshelves, browsing the titles, and finds a book on history of marriages; the one she hasn't seen before. She takes it from the shelf, sits at the table and leafs through it, thinking of her own approaching wedding. It seems they will do it the way ancient Romans did: 'The bride's father would deliver her to the groom, and the two agreed that they were wed, and would keep the vow of marriage by mutual consent'.

She smiles; of course the Dark One would marry in some ancient manner.

She thinks of their meeting, all this time – a lifetime – ago; it is so strange to think that really they were married then, on that first night, as she said 'Forever' to him. What if things were different – what if he didn't have his magical quest to fulfill, and could have loved her freely? What if she didn't rush things with her kiss, didn't try to break his curse – would they have found a way to live together and love each other there, in their enchanted homeland, as the Dark One and his wife? She pictures her wedding to him there, in the Dark Castle; pictures him in one of his incredible resplendent coats, in a black mantle perhaps, herself in a long dress of pale gold – woven from the treads he spun, he wouldn't settle for less.

Who would have attended this wedding? Who would have dared to miss it? How would have they lived there, afterwards – would they have had children? It was a nice castle to raise a family in – it was too big for a lonely man.

She smiles at this weird version of 'happily ever after', and shakes her head. Of course it couldn't have happened like that. Everything happens by design, he says; things happen the way they are meant to happen. They were meant to suffer all their pain, because of who she is, and who he is.

'_I am a villain, and villains don't get happy endings'_, he said to his father, as she stood watching him die and cried, inside: 'You are not a villain, you are the man I love!'

'_My ending shall not be a happy one'_, he said to her once.

They must turn this tale around. She is not his happy ending, though God knows he deserves it. He is _her_ happy ending – and, being a princess, she is entitled to one.

The words of the traditional marriage vow stare at her from the page. _'I take you to be my wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part'._

Even further, in their case.

Death did not part them.

Would she let a weakness stand between them?

She takes a deep breath, and pulls the dagger out of her bag.

For a while, she sits holding it in her hands, getting the feel of it.

It is a powerful magical thing. It is warm – warmer then it felt yesterday. But there is nothing sinister about it; nothing really dark.

'_And this dagger is not dangerous?'_

'_No, it is not'. Said with his back to her, said in a deliberately light voice_.

Something is wrong with him – something is wrong with this dagger.

She closes her eyes, holding the blade, summoning all her knowledge of him, trying to understand. This blade feels familiar – as if she handled something similar before. And suddenly she knows what it was: his straw.

This dagger has 'Rumpelstiltskin' written all over it; not in letters – in magic.

It is full of his magic.

Did he _make_ it?

How is it possible?

No, no, of course it isn't. He's entitled to his secrets, but how could he keep anything like _that_ from her? This dagger is the thing with which Dark Ones are created – it gives him his power. That is why magic feels the same. Surely it is so.

Isn't it?

'_Belle has my dagger, she would curb any homicidal tendencies I might have'_.

His shifty look.

His trick with the tape.

His lies.

He lied to her about something – she is sure of that.

Could he have lied about something so important? Doesn't he trust her at all?

If she called him with this dagger that she holds in her hand now, if she summoned him, now – would he come?

She doesn't dare to try.

She doesn't want him to think she _is_ ready to abuse her power over him.

She doesn't want to _know_ she _has_ no power.

He knew she wouldn't try; he knows her so well.

She closes her eyes, trying to stop herself from crying – trying to swallow the pain. It all comes back – all the times when he rejected her, refused to open up to her, held something back. All the times she preached with him, walked out on him, made her point.

All the times she lost him.

A vision comes to her – his bleak face, his dead eyes, his body rigid as he sent her away from his castle after she tired to break his curse. And his bleak face, his dead eyes as he sailed from her to die. And his bleak face, dead eyes, his body doubled in pain on the snow after she brought his son to die for him.

His bloodless face, his closed eyelids as he stepped into the light; and she just stood there, watching.

His hand, trembling as he reached to take her hand in the cage.

His tears of yesterday. His shaking body. His despair.

She cannot blame him.

'You don't need magic, you need courage to let me in', she told him once; and she was _wrong_. She accused him of being a coward, so many times, when all he did was holding on to something really important to him – something he thought would upset her; something she might ruin with her blunt goodness.

She already told herself her insistence on goodness only made his life harder – she told this to herself as she sat on the ground, stunned, looking at the spot where he died.

Never again.

Perhaps heroes would say differently. But she is not a hero.

She is a girl who loves him, and lost him so many times she lost count, and afraid to lose him again.

She is a coward.

She is the wife of the Dark One, or soon will be.

She is on his side.

She takes the dagger into her hands again, pensive. He gave it to her with words of love. He gave _himself_ over to her – himself, not just this magical piece of steel. And, despite what she might suspect and fear, she knows he was not deceiving her then.

She knows him well.

'_Despite what you may believe, I am still a monster'._

Still the man she loves.

She doesn't want to know anything else.

She would not summon him with this dagger, ever.

Their love binds them – they don't need any other props.

She is ready to face him, now, but she needs to do something else first. She needs to hide the dagger – it would look strange if she took it with her to the wedding; indecent, even – what sort of bride needs a magical tool to summon her husband to the altar?

And she feels reluctant to have it with her – it would only upset her.

She hides it here, in the library. An obvious place, perhaps, but if he thought that it is safe for her to carry it around town, than surely she can hide it wherever she wants.

They meet at the shop and go to the announcement of the prince's name together. She clasps his hand as they hear the name, feels the downward surge of his heart, watches his unbearably sad face as he closes his eyes, lost in thought, lost in the past – lost in some long-gone moment of his life; such a long life, with so many parts of it still unknown to her.

That was a nice gesture from the royal family; a sweet one. They did not do it for him, of course – they have their own reasons to honor his son. But it _was_ good of them. She knows how much it means to him: it will not bring back their son; but it will make him live on, somehow.

And then they sneak quietly away, and she goes to her father's place, to put on the dress _he_ charmed for her, to take her flowers and to walk up to him, waiting on the forest clearing; not as grand as her imagined wedding in the Dark Castle, but real and therefore better. And fitting, too: they first embraced on the forest clearing, after all.

He was very secretive about his arrangements – she didn't know who'd witness the vows. And at the sight of smiling, awkward Doctor Hopper, who was always so kind to her, she smiles, too: the magical cricket – the person who could always spot a lie when he hears it.

His presence means that every word they say here today is true.

She speaks from the heart as she tells him her journey of losses was a path towards finding him.

'I lost you to darkness, I lost you to weakness, I lost you to death'.

'_Never again', she adds, inside_.

He speaks from the heart as he tells her what she means to him.

'You brought light into my life, and chased away all the darkness'.

'_Not yet, sweetheart. Not yet. But I will. I promise', she tells him silently_.

'How could you see the man behind the monster I will never know', he says.

Oh, how clever he is, how apt with words… He _tells_ her he is still unchanged, just as he did before – he speaks the truth.

'_You have to leave, because, despite what you may believe, I am still a monster', he told her once. 'And this is exactly the reason I have to stay', she told him then._

Nothing changed.

'But that monster is gone', she smiles. And that is true, too: that particular monster is gone; another one replaced him, brought on by pain and suffering and loss – atoned by love, which remained unchanging. And, just as she tried to tell him then, she doesn't want the monster to be gone – if he was gone, he wouldn't be the same man, the man she loves. 'The man beneath him is flawed, but we all are. And I _love_ you for it'.

Will he listen? Would he understand?

It seems that he does – his eyes brim with tears. He looks… grateful.

And suddenly it hits her again – that overwhelming awe at the miracle of having him here, alive – of hearing him say these lovely sentimental things… He is the Dark One, a proud and secretive beast, and yet he lets a cricket wed him and speaks openly of his heart's wishes.

That's how much he loves her.

_That's_ who he is, whatever he believes himself to be.

And she is, now, his wife.

'_You must be Mrs Gold?' – 'No, I am… not'_.

Well, she _is_ now.

And nothing else matters – nothing else is irredeemable.

She sobs as she reaches to kiss him.

They walk from the forest to his – their – house hand in hand, as they walked from the well on the day the first curse broke.

He looks at her sideways and squeezes her hand. 'Weird, isn't it? A happy ending…' There is sadness and wistfulness in his voice, and she thinks she must tell him of her imaginary wedding to him in the enchanted land – that would make him smile.

But she doesn't have time, for they walk up to the house, finally, and he opens the door, and takes her up in his arms to carry her across the threshold – he is a man to observe traditions, she always knew that. And, as he steps in with her in his arms, she gasps – the hall is full of roses.

She feels like crying – it is such a simple, silly, deeply sentimental thing; it tells so much about him – about his times, more courteous and civilized than modern ones; about his heart, given to simple and beautiful things; traditional things; sentimental values.

He is such an old-fashioned man, her husband. Such a gentle man.

The gentlest, kindest of men, who has given himself to darkness to protect his child; paid for that with his life, and failed; and still he is full of love.

What an honor it is to share his life. What a responsibility. What bitter joy.

Sometimes the best book has the dustiest jacket, and the best teacup is chipped.

Sometimes the simplest things are the most precious.

Like being carried in his arms up the staircase, and into the bedroom, also filled with roses. Like being kissed on the lips, longingly, his hands cupping her face, his eyes closed as if in prayer. Like being lowered on the bed upon virginally white sheets; like being looked at with sadness and adoration.

_With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow…_

His fingers, tangled in her hair, caressing each lock. His fingers trembling slightly as he unbuttons her dress. His breath, catching as her breasts are exposed. His eyes, lingering on her naked skin.His hands, coming to rest on her thighs, pulling down her stockings, running down her legs, taking off her shoes; his lips, pressed to the soles of her feet as he kneels before her.

They made love many times over the course of their love – they snatched many moments of happiness from fate that punished them. Yet tonight, when they come together as husband and wife, it seems like they never knew each other – like they discover each other for the first time.

And, as he claims her for his own, she senses magic happening.

'_If I'm never going to know another person in my whole life, can't I at least know you?'_

'_Perhaps… Perhaps you just want to learn the monster's weaknesses, ah? Ah?'_

_His eyes, so sad and kind, his laugh, so teasing and tender; the golden dust on his skin._

_His hand on the spinning wheel._

'_Why did you come back?'_

_His lips, pressed to hers for the first time._

_His sigh._

His lips, kissing her between her legs. His fingers, resting on her thighs, tensing as he tastes her wetness, as he senses the trembling of her insides.

Her taste on his lips as he moves to kiss her.

The light in his eyes.

His eyelids, dropping as he enters her, slowly.

His sigh, his low moan as she tenses around him.

His hair, falling on his brow.

His head, thrown back.

His hand on her neck; on her breast; gentle; trembling.

His voice, speaking her name.

'Belle'.

Her heart, reaching out to him.

Her body, disappearing as she becomes his – turning into the light, into the bright and warm shining to wrap around him, to shelter him, to never leave him – to belong to him as his skin and heart and tears.

Their love, palpable.

Their deal, sealed.

Resting, cradled in his arms, her head on his chest; listening to his heartbeat.

His lips, kissing the top of her head.

His hands, stroking her back, his soft whisper: 'Sweetheart, don't cry. There is nothing to cry about. All will be well now'.

And she didn't even know she was crying.

Kissing him; feeling him smile into her lips.

Wanting to believe him – wanting it so much.

Watching his face as he drifts to sleep; listening to his breathing, getting even; holding his hand; watching his fine, dry face relax; resisting the urge to caress him, to trace his features with her fingers.

There will be time for that.

Let him sleep now.

Let him rest.

Let no darkness claim him.

Let her happy ending be his.


	41. Chapter 41

41

Darkness beckoned him.

Even as he kissed her on the steps of his shop, saying a brief good-bye for the part of the day – she had to see her father, he had business to attend to; even as he watched her retreating back, held straight as becomes a princess; even as she suddenly turned to look at him, her eyes unexpectedly sad and searching, and their light grazed him like blue fire; even as his heart lurched forward, urging him to stop her, to hold her to him, to tell her everything… Even then he felt the shadow looming behind his back, reaching to touch his shoulder, masquerading as strands of cold fog enveloping the town. He felt its' breath on his neck, chilling the warmth of her kiss; heard its' whisper, unintelligible but malicious, replacing the memory of her loving words.

He shakes his head, to disperse the spell, and closes his ears. He has no time for all these whispers, for all these shadows. They would have no power over him – he would not let them. He has other plans, other things to do.

He has a life to build – a life to build on the ruins of the life he had before. But there is one thing he must do before he commences this new life; a thing he dreads and longs for.

He has to say farewell: to the man he used to be, to the life he had.

He has to say farewell to his son.

Slowly, very slowly he walks the town, each step leaden, feeling his way almost blindly, finding the cemetery not with his eyes, but with his inner vision – following the call of blood.

There it is. His tombstone, similar to others, standing on green lawn, shaded by old trees.

Lovely spot.

There he is – dead in his arms, buried without him. Buried under the name he has chosen for himself, not under the name his father called him.

There he is, deep beneath the ground. Dead.

Bae.

His son.

The meaning of his life – that life he had before.

Words written on the stone make his heart constrict. 'Beloved son'. She must have told them to write that – she's the only one who understands.

Beloved son. That's what he was, more than anything else. Not much of a lover. Not much of a father. But a son – always. Loved, and loving.

Beloved son.

He stands in front of the stone for a long time, his eyes closed, his hands clasped. Stands there living through his memories – brining up each and every instant of his son's life, even most painful ones. The second he held him in his arms, and his heart melted as the babe touched his face with tiny fingers. His endless crying. His first illness, and his own blind panic as he held his hand to hot, feverish skin of his suffering boy. His rare smiles – he was a quiet child. His fingers clasping his hand as they walked through their village, a cripple with a cane and his shy little boy. His laughter as he played with the dogs that minded the sheep. His concentration as he attempted to master spinning – he was hopeless at that. His pained look as his mother failed to come home, again and again. His tears, loud and desperate, when she failed to come home at all. His eyes, growing old and wise, overnight. His silent support. His attempts to act grown up. The fear in his eyes when he saw him holding the dagger – saw him changing, turning into something alien and evil. The sadness, the growing sadness in his eyes as he watched his father disappearing; as he watched him forgetting his purpose, his heart, his real self; horror in his eyes as he watched him enjoying his dark power – accepting his transformation. Hope in his eyes – strong, everlasting hope; belief in him; love for him. His warm hand, as they shook on their deal.

His scream as he fell into the green pit of the portal; abandoned. Betrayed. Changed forever, just as he was changed by what his father did to him. But stronger – so much stronger. Growing into a man still able to love – into a man able to forgive. Into a man stubborn and willful – that must be in their blood… Into a man passionate and just.

Growing into a man who forgave his father, and clasped his dying hand, and saved him. Growing into a man willing to sacrifice himself for love. Forcing his father to accept that – forcing him with the power of his forgiveness; with the power of his love.

Cruel, cruel child.

A grown man, dead in his arms.

His boy, his beautiful boy, his loving and lost and missed boy.

A child that lost his parent is an orphan. Why is there no word for a parent who lost a child? Perhaps because it is such an abhorrent, unnatural thing that it could not be given a name.

Tears run down his cheeks, unchecked, as he looks back at his life and realizes that, however much he tried, he could not change its' course – its' outcome. He cheated fate, he tricked it to be able to see his son grow and live. But on every turn of the road fate still demanded a sacrifice from one or both of them.

If he went and died on that first war, his son would have been fatherless – left to the care of a woman who was not capable of caring for anyone but herself.

If he did not become the Dark One, his son would have died on his own war.

If he did not kill his mother, she would have come with her lover and took his son away.

If he did not fall into the pit of light his father would have been gone, slowly taken over by darkness. His loss was the only thing that made him remain human – his loss, and his wish to redeem himself. For the sake of his boy he left his heart alive – for the sake of his boy he still believed in love and hope. For the love of his boy there was still something human in him when She entered his life; and then the real torture began.

Standing there in front of his son's grave he gives words to the thought that is alone enough to destroy him: _he could never have had both of them_. From that moment, that very first moment when he nearly lost his power to her love he knew – it was either Belle, or Bae.

Fate told him to make a choice, then – an impossible choice.

Abandoning his son was unthinkable.

Letting go of her love was unbearable.

He should have known he couldn't change that deal. Yet still he tried. Fooling himself, deluding himself it would work. Hoping against hope. Fighting for the lost cause.

When he tricked fate and survived the pirate's attack he did it to be with her; he wanted to be with her at any cost, and alienated his son.

If he died then, he would have died forgiven.

But if he died then, he would not have been able to help his family. His father would have destroyed them.

If he died then, he wouldn't be able to die for them later.

They should have left him dead. He was much better off dead. But they loved him too much – his son and his bride loved him too much to let him rest in peace.

His eyes are closed, but he sees it again – that night on the clearing in the dark forest, that night when darkness lured them to resurrect him. He remembers the pain of his rebirth, as sacrificial blood called to him to come back to life. He remembers his awe and terror.

He remembers opening his eyes, and looking at her stricken face, and speaking her name with sadness and horror, thinking: 'Not _her_! Don't let it be her who gave her life for me!'

Noticing his son's body on the ground in an instant and feeling his newly born heart stop.

He had made his choice then. With the first thought he had – the thought of her; with the first word he uttered – her name – he made his choice.

His impossible choice.

He broke the covenant – the sacred covenant between a child and his parent; simple, as all ancient magic, and all-powerful: a child always comes first.

He has no one to blame but himself. This girl, this mad girl he killed – she was but an instrument of fate; darkness tricked her, darkness deluded her just as it deludes everyone else.

Yet still she had to die.

His son's soul was promised to darkness when he gave his life for his father. Darkness did not get it – it cannot gain power over the soul given away for the sake of love. But it still demanded a soul, and he gave it a soul – a wicked, dark soul. She wanted to raise the Dark One – she was the one who should have paid for that, by giving her life to animate his body, and her soul to darkness to ensure his power.

And now she paid that price.

He killed her, and sent her soul where it belongs, and to do that he stained his love with evasions and lies. Yet he had to do it. Not for himself, whatever he told himself. Not even for Belle. Certainly not just for revenge.

He did it so that darkness could have no possible claim on his boy.

He is dead. Let him rest in peace, as he could not.

He is dead, and his soul is safe.

And with that _his_ life, the life he had before, is over.

He was a father, more than anything else.

And now he is a father no more.

He failed – he failed in this life that he had before. He made a wrong choice.

He chose to be a man who loves a woman who had now agreed to become his wife.

_This_ is his new life, and he would give all that he has not to fail it as he failed his old one. He has to be good and true for her, as he failed to be for his son. He has to put her before everything else in the world. He has to live for her, with his every breath and heartbeat. He should give her everything she ever wanted; atone his every guilt; keep her safe from harm.

She is the only person he has left in the world, the only soul he loves, the only body he craves, and his love for her is the meaning of his existence now.

_This_ is his new covenant.

Darkness, loitering in the fog behind his shoulder, takes a shade back.

He _loves_ her.

That is all there is to him, now.

He opens his eyes, and runs his palms across his wet cheeks. He walks away from his son's grave, not looking back, yet hearing his voice, that voice that used to live inside his head…

'_Let go. I need you to'._

Never, Bae. Never.

But you can rest in peace. Papa will not bother you anymore.

The rest of the day goes on in a kind of haze – he cannot concentrate on anything properly. So many things happened so fast, so much changed, and he must be getting old – he is losing his touch, he makes silly mistakes, he slips all the time; they nearly caught him with their security tapes, how could he have been so careless? Yes, he must be getting old. Or did his imprisonment damage him more than he realizes?..

She gave him such a sad look when he put a spell on the tape – she must have felt something; she always does. But then she clasped his hand, and gave it a reassuring squeeze, and he told himself: 'She'd understand'.

She really, really would.

He should have taken the dagger back when she brought it to him, when she questioned him about it with such baffled sincerity. But he slipped again – he actually let it out that this dagger is not as important as she thinks. Yet it is, in a way. He gave it to her with words of love and, even if the blade itself is no token of power, it is a token of the promise he gave her.

'_I am, now and forever, yours'_.

Magic happened when he said those words, and _this_ is the magic that lingers on the dagger – _her_ dagger – now.

So let her keep it, or hide it, or lose it – let her do whatever she wants with it. If anyone else takes it now, it would be dead in their hands – this dagger gives power over him only to her.

He spends a long time preparing the wedding; choosing the flowers and the place, charming her a dress, decorating his house with flowers – she'd like that, she loved it when he gave her a rose, and, though she never knew that he killed her fiancé to give her this little present, _if _she knew, she'd have appreciated that roses he picked for her today are real; no magic about them, he just collected the whole stock of roses her father had, and told him, grudgingly, that his debt is forgotten. He still owed him, after all.

He comes back into his house for the first time in a year – for the first time since that enchanted night they spent here when he returned from the island; for the first time since that day when he had to leave her again forever, as he thought then. Even though full of his things, the place looks empty, unlived in; of course, she didn't spend much time here, she mostly remained in the shop. His steps echo in twilit rooms; the blinds are closed. He walks up the stairs into his bedroom. It feels strange to walk up without his limp – without his cane; the last time they went up here with Belle, kissing, and he had no mind to notice this strangeness. He opens the door, and looks at the room where he spent so many lonely nights during the curse. The place looks bleak; it needs to be refreshed – the whole house needs to be refreshed, it looks like a tomb, it is unfit for his young bride. He closes his eyes, forming a mental picture of what it all should look like to please her. When he opens them, everything's done.

There are many perks to being the Dark One.

Choosing a suit for himself he feels absurdly nervous and a little silly: just how awkward is all that, dressing up for a wedding, being a man of his age – being _him_. Fingering his silk tie he has a momentary vision of his hand, as it used to be when she met him and first loved him – his green leathery clawed paw, and of how she touched it tenderly.

How could she love him? What did she see in him, then, to look at him with awe and wonder – to smile at him – to cry at being rejected by him? What did she see in him when he saw nothing in himself – when he _was_ nothing but a malicious creature glorying in his cursedness – fully enjoying his damnation – his power, his allure, his wit, and the awe in which he held the world? Yes, that was the worst about him, then: he was mad, cruel, evil and ruthless, he played people, he pulled strings and he giggled and danced and clicked his claws, and he _loved_ every minute of it.

It took her clear vision and her courage to look at him with compassion and tell him he's ugly. It took the openness of her heart to remind him that he used to be different. It took the force of her love to remind him of his loss.

Her love made him remember his purpose – his quest for the son he betrayed. She woke him up from his delirious self-enjoyment, and gave him strength to be human again. Her love, which it was so unbearable to give up, made him remember his duty; when the choice was placed before him then, he chose cruelly, he hurt himself and her, but he chose as a father should have chosen. The man he was when he strolled into her father's castle and snatched her away would not have had the strength to choose wisely. The man he became after months of loving her was capable of sacrifice for the right cause.

Ah, the irony of that: he needed to love her to become a man who could give her up.

He walks up to the mirror to adjust his tie, and looks at his drawn, brooding face.

What happened to that man? How did he become a coward again – how did he become a cheep cheat who lies to her and holds things back from her? He lost too much, he suffered too much, but is that, really, a good excuse?

'I know you are a changed man', she told him today when he blatantly lied to her about the dagger. She meant 'changed for better'; yet he knows differently. He is a changed man, indeed. He definitely is not the man he used to be. But who is he, now?

He stares into his own dark, uncertain eyes, and darkness stares back at him.

He closes his eyes with a sigh and in the darkness of his mind he sees her face – her smiling eyes, her magical eyes, deep and light and knowing.

She knows him so much better then he knows himself.

She'll tell him who he is, and what she'd tell him would be the truth.

He opens his eyes, and they are his own again. Sad, and old, and tired. But human.

They have one more thing to do before the wedding – they have to attend the ceremony of the naming of the prince. He feels like ditching it – he is deeply uneasy about the whole thing. He'd face the people in town for the first time since he was forced to threaten them on the main street, and they'd fear him and pity him, and both would be unbearable.

Snow White is holding her infant and, as he enters, she gives him a soppy look, and he feels his heart go heavy. He knows what they'll do.

He knows the name of their prince.

When one of the dwarfs comes up to him, intending to say something, he feels like hissing and, seeing his look, poor fellow makes himself scarce.

They pronounce a name, and he feels those tiny fingers touching his face, again, and feels his heart stop, again.

God bless them, and damn them, those heroes.

They mean well – they are trying to make his boy's memory live on. But by doing this, by making his son one of them, they are taking him away from him with absolute finality.

Darkness is locked out of the café, pressing itself to the window, looking for a way in.

But _she_ is holding his hand, and he feels her warmth by his side, and he tells his heart to beat again.

She is here, and she will soon become his wife.

All will be well.

They part at the doors of the café: she goes to her father to put on her dress; he goes back to the house, to check everything for the last time and to dress, too.

When everything is done to his satisfaction, he checks himself in the mirror.

He looks absurd, though impeccably dressed.

He gets a brief and grotesque vision of what his wedding to her would have looked like, if he married her then – if things were easy and perfect then, and he would have wed her in the Dark Castle. It would have been a grand affair, as befitted his style. She would have looked lovely in a dress of pale gold; he would have made her one just like the dress in which he first saw her – it was so lovely. He would have looked… just as weird as he looks now; _wrong_ for her, in so many ways. What has he done to her, so many years ago, coming into her life and filling it with pain and loss? Why did he have to bind her to him, and drag her down with him? Love is the most powerful magic in the world, and it comes with the steepest price. She loves him, and she is paying the price that should have been paid by him – paying it _with_ him…

All because she loves him.

Love is the most powerful magic in the world, and comes with the steepest price. And, unlike any other magic, it cannot be controlled or refused or forewarned of.

We do not choose whom we love. We just love, and we pay – with our whole lives.

That deal is struck.

He stands on the forest clearing chosen for the ceremony in a company of the magical cricket, called to witness their vows. A magical being able to spot a lie in every heart… Was that a wise choice of a witness, he wonders?

'_His heart is true'._ That's what Belle said about him, once.

She knows better.

The forest around him is dark – so very, very dark, despite all the candlelight.

It breathes, and whispers, and beckons to him.

He closes his ears, he closes his mind.

It will not claim him. He would not let it.

She knows him better than he knows himself.

And then she comes and, as he sees her slight figure, dressed in white, approaching through the darkness, she looks literally as a ray of light. She steps carefully on her high heels, obviously nervous, hands slightly shaking – she is so fragile, his bride, she is like a china doll. Awkward, like a child; trusting, giving her life over to him; innocent, as a flower pressed to his face; hopeful, as if seeing the light; gentle, like a lover; powerful, casting a spell on him by her very presence.

And his heart goes out to her, and his eyes water, as he looks at her – hurt by her brightness, grateful for her existence.

She tells him she lost him and found him, and the cricket beams at her: it is the truth.

She knows better. She knows everything there is to know.

He tells her she changed him, and the cricket nods contentedly: it is the truth.

A changed man, indeed.

'I will never forget the distance between what I was and what I am', he tells her, and realizes that, however hard is the journey, however uncertain its' outcome, it _is_ a journey for the better.

'How you could see the man behind the monster I will never know', he tells her, and hears their voices, from such a long time ago: _'You have to go, because I am still a monster' – 'And this is exactly the reason I have to stay'._

She told him that she loves him the way he is then… Whom does she love now? _Whom_ has she found?

'But that monster is gone', she says, and the cricket nods, again. It is the truth.

How can it be the truth?

'The man behind him is flawed, but we all are. And I _love_ you for it', she says.

A man. A flawed man whom she knows and loves – loves him _because_ he's imperfect.

That's who he is.

She looks up at him with tears brimming in her eyes; all her pain, all her losses are in her eyes as she looks up at him – just as she looked at him in his castle when she first reached to kiss him – wanting to save him.

He kisses her with a sob and, as their lips meet, magic happens around them; a ripple of light charges through the forest, enveloping them, and darkness retreats a step farther.

He is _hers_ now. He belongs to her.

'_Now, and forever, yours'_.

They walk up to the house holding hands, two babes in the woods, even though he is old, and she is full of promise. At the doors of the house he picks her up into his arms – something he couldn't do while he was a cripple, something he'd definitely do if they were in enchanted land. And, as she gasps and smiles at all the roses filling the house, all he can think of is that moment in the past when she fell into his arms and he was transfixed by her closeness – torn with desire, overcome with the miracle of holding her to him, feeling her skin, sensing her scent.

He knew her and loved her many times – not as many as he would have chosen, for fate was cruel to them, but he knew her and loved her; she had been his. But today everything feels differently – today everything has, somehow, come back to the innocent longing of their first touch, their first smile; his want for her wakes up as it woke up then, when he watched her around the castle, unable to take his eyes of her, noticing her bare arms, the curves of her body, her fluttering eyelashes and the way she bit her lip, and longed to touch her and taste her, and castigated himself for daring to entertain such dreams, and succumbed to them.

He knew his hands would tremble, as he'd take off her dress; they tremble now. He knew his breath would catch, as he'd see her breasts, luminously white, nipples dark and small like rosebuds; it catches now. He knew his heart would beat madly as he'd run his palms down her legs; it beats madly now – and calms, suddenly peaceful, as he kneels before her and kisses her feet. And his heart accelerates again as he removes her underwear and looks at her, legs spread for him, breasts heaving, eyes mellow – hands reaching towards him, palms coming to rest on his shoulders as he bends to touch her lower lips, kissing them as he would kiss her mouth, making her tremble, making her grip his shoulders harder. Tender and gentle, her body is tender and gentle just as her heart is; and just as generous, and given to him.

Kissing her on the mouth, deeply, breathing in her breath.

His.

Stroking her flesh, gently, feeling her inner trembling.

His.

Entering her, slowly, cherishing each instant, feeling her tighten around him.

His.

Feeling her move with him, urging him deeper. Hearing her shallow breathing. Kissing her lips. Touching her breast, stroking her nipple with his fingertips. Feeling her shudder. Hearing her low moan. Moaning with her.

Claiming her, and claimed by her.

His. She is his, and he is hers.

Now and forever, yours.

The new covenant, sealed.

His existence, given a meaning.

His new life, commenced.

Holding her to him, wrapping her in his arms as she cries; stroking her hair and her back, whispering gentle rubbish; kissing her tears.

Drifting into sleep by her warm side, tired, spent, knowing he can rest in peace now.

He can sleep now, he can close his eyes.

She is his.

The night behind their windows is dark; it seems to be looking in through the glass. But it cannot enter – the room is dark, but it is brightly lit at the same time; lit with her presence, with all his flowers. With his peace.

He can sleep now, he can close his eyes.

He is hers.

He is safe in her arms.

10


	42. Chapter 42

42

And they lived happily ever after.

Isn't that what they always say at the end of every fairytale? A neat phrase, a nice way to tidy up all loose ends.

But it never happens like that, does it? Even for the heroes — for the good people who deserve happiness. Look at Snow White and her prince: good people, without doubt; silly, but undeniably good. Do they live happily? Hardly, with their life filled with tiresome and dangerous adventures. So what's to be expected for people like him?

Cowardly, shadowy slime of a man who is unable to be honest even with the woman he loves more than life itself; a man unable to appreciate the good life gives him without mourning what he had lost, without harboring ill feelings towards people who wronged him. A man unable to shake off his past — to get rid of the fear, irrational as it is, that the torture he suffered would return and grip him once more, forever this time.

He is a villain, and villains don't get happy endings. Even if they wiggle their way into a possibility of a happy ending by marrying princesses, who are entitled to them. It could be argued what is to blame. Fate that blindly delivers its' blows according to your part in the story, regardless of your intentions, good deeds and deep suffering? Or your own nature that prompts you to actions you know to be wrong? Or just human nature that prompts your princess to become a little less good than she was — a little bit darker, now that she is by your side... Now that she is your wife.

Why is that always so? Why a thing that _could_ be corrupted _gets_ corrupted, if there is evil nearby, and a thing that could be bettered never gets repaired, even when embraced by goodness? Ah, but that is a very simple law of life. All the good things are just hopes and illusions and blindness. They are brief and fleeting. All the bad things are real, solid and inevitable. Everything bad that can happen will happen. Bad things are constant; they never leave you alone. And even if you believed them gone, they'd come back to you, as if to haunt you.

Like that magical cylindrical box staring at him from the counter in his shop; teasing him. Promising him the impossible — his freedom; the ultimate prize.

Bad things never go away. They stay with you... forever.

He closes his eyes, trying to shut away the memory — the sound of her voice, earnest and youthful, pledging herself to him. _'I will go with you, forever_'. Shutting his eyes is a bad mistake; it only brings back the memory of her face to go along with the voice. Her dazzling, beautiful face, her magical eyes filling his life with light... That light that he abused ever since. That light that his presence in her life dimmed with sadness and loss, with exposure to horrors, misery and temptations.

Why, oh why did she have to be so adventurous, his little princess? Why there has to be so much mischief in her nature?

That morning, the first morning of their married life, when they woke up in their bedroom in his house and it was so full of sunlight he could hardly believe his eyes; he had lived in this room for thirty years and it never looked so bright. He woke up to see her smiling face, to meet her shining eyes; woke to kiss her parted lips and to embrace her slight body, which he could now and forever claim as his own. She gave herself to him languidly, as if enjoying her new married status — as if for the first time feeling herself to be a woman, not a girl. Afterwards, she chatted happily over breakfast, which she insisted on cooking herself, reminding him that he 'took her to be his caretaker, after all, and taking care of him is exactly what she'll do'. She served him tea in that long-suffering chipped cup and watched him dreamily as he drunk it. And he was so lost in her, so enveloped in her joy that every sadness pressing on him seemed gone or at least temporary forgotten; he did not think of his son, not once in almost an hour.

He also put aside the uneasy feeling of some serious magic happening in town, the feeling that nagged him, somewhere at the back of his mind, ever since he felt that Emma and her pirate came back from the time portal. These magical happenings, whatever they were, did not concern him; even if serious, they could be dealt with later. He was in his happy place, with his lovely wife, in a sunlit kitchen, and her nightdress was slipping off her shoulder, and she was tugging at the lapels of his robe and smiling at him and licking crumbs from her lower lip, and he knew that look in her eyes — the look that said that it would be a long time before they'd dress properly today.

It was such a bright, sunny morning. Such a hopeful morning; a morning of a really good day. And, as all good and hopeful things, it was brief.

She seemed slightly nervous as they dressed — no, not really nervous, but edgy and exited. She said that she had a surprise for him. He didn't have the heart to tell her how he hates surprises; how could he love them, after having an unpredictable imp of a father that he had? She seemed so happy, so taken with this secret idea of hers. Looking at her, as she stood bathed in the sunlight in her white blouse, all sweetness and trust, he made a decision he should have made a long time ago; that he'd really give her his dagger. He'd protect her right of possession with all the spells he can think of, making it impossible for her to accidentally lose it or for it to be taken from her hands by anybody but himself; he'd protect it, of course, but he would really give it to her. He'd put aside his ridiculous fears of being captured and tortured again. He is the Dark One, the most powerful wizard in the world. Who would oppose him? Whom does he have to fear?

He'd give her the dagger, and they will live happily ever after, as this bright morning promised them.

She told him to stop at the cemetery as they drove through town, and told him he'd wait for him by the car. He gave her a doubtful look, wondering what came over her, but then he remembered: she was taking her walk for the bride's nerves when he visited the graveyard yesterday; she didn't know he already said his farewell to his boy. And again he didn't have the heart to explain — she was so solemn and sad as she nudged him to go.

He went and spoke to his son again, glad of the excuse to come back; glad of the chance to talk through his grief and his hopes of redemption again. It was somehow different now, on this bright morning. That slightly less hard.

Why couldn't he talk to her of his loss — why was it easier to talk to the stone than to her? He never said a coherent word about Bae to anyone, which was hardly surprising, they were nothing to him, and he felt irrational anger at their attempts to show him compassion, as if by doing so they presumed on him, on his personal space — as if their clumsy and, he felt sure, hypocritical condolences would pollute the purity of his grief. Yes, it was hardly surprising he never spoke to others — but why not to her? Was it because she seemed so happy, and he didn't want to spoil her mood? Or did she seem even more like a child to him now that he lost his real child?

He wanted to protect her from all darkness, just as he wanted to protect his son. And, just as in the past when terrible things were happening to him, and he kept them from his boy so as not to upset him, he believed that ignorance is bliss.

However, visiting the grave did him good; he came back to her in a much brighter mood and listened indulgently to her banter about the old abandoned house that she found and decided to claim for their honeymoon. She was such a kid still, despite everything that happened to her, and it warmed his heart to think that it was his presence, his closeness and his love that made her forget all evils and enjoy her childish prank to such an extent.

They walked into this weird and magnificent house, and he felt the slightest of shivers, the shadow of unease; there was magic here, in this strange place.

She fluttered through the rooms like a bright white bird, the image of happiness. He stopped her for a second, and exchanged the daggers, as he resolved to.

It would have been too troublesome to explain things to her.

Ignorance is bliss.

And, with his dagger really in her possession, for an instant, for a mere second he felt the man he should have been for her all along; for an instant things between them were right, and he felt so much better for it.

And then he saw the box.

And everything came back to him. Those hopeless years of fighting for his freedom so that his power to find Bae wouldn't depend on the realm in which he looked for him. That moment of triumph when a chatty, red-headed girl, not much unlike his wife, helped him to finally gain this treasure — this magical _hat_, oh what a stupid object to possess such incredible qualities, this hat that would help him escape from his dagger and retain his magic. That moment of unspeakable horror when this chatty, red-headed girl, so much like his wife, got hold of his dagger and he felt it for the first time — that utter helplessness, the horror of slavery, the black impotence of great power restrained by alien will. It was so brief then, so mercifully brief, but he swore to never live through anything like that again. But he had to; and how! The whole year of torture, the whole year of slavery at the will of an evil heart, when all hope and dignity were denied him. The whole year when his soul was trodden upon by heavy boots; the boots that nearly stepped on the face of his dead boy.

It all came back to him. And with that, came another thing: cruel realization that his fears were not gone — they were very real and solid. He is the Dark One, but he is _not_ the greatest wizard in the world. There is another one, somewhere — this Sorcerer who forged the hat. And he is here, in this world, for this house, which must have come over with the latest curse, is here; so this dangerous enemy is active somewhere here in this world to which he himself brought magic.

And that means that he, the Dark One, can be defeated again. And he must protect himself; and protect this smiling girl to whom his closeness and his love bring so much happiness.

Why did she have to be so playful and adventurous, this young wife of his? Why did she have to bring him to this house to find this hat, and be thrown into depths of misery and fear? If he did not know of this house and did not see this box, he would have been happy.

Ignorance is bliss.

God knows how he went through the motions of the bright and happy day that she planned. The dance, the picnic in the garden — she packed a basket for that and put it at the back of his car, the love-making in different rooms of the cursed mansion; and all the while fear was gnawing at his soul, all the while he seemed to glimpse darkness lurking in every corner, smirking at his 'happily ever after'.

He waited patiently until she went to sleep, exhausted by all the happy activities of the day. With great sadness he looked at her relaxed face.

He could not keep his promise to her, or to Bae, or to himself. He had to take back his dagger.

He had to protect himself. He could never, ever be enslaved once more — he wouldn't survive it, not again.

He had to take hold of this box. For in this box, if everything went well, he'd find his salvation — his ultimate protection.

If he were free from the dagger, nothing would ever touch him. No one would ever hold him captive. No one would ever touch things and people he loves. If he were free from the dagger, it would be almost as if his curse never happened — he'd be a free man, a man able to love truly. Good and clean, just as he was before the ogres war, before he heard the prophecy and made a first step on the way that led him to darkness. A good and clean man, who could love his young wife and fear nothing.

So he took the dagger, and took the box with the hat inside it. He hid them, and went to rest by his gentle young wife. She snugged closer to him, and he welcomed her warm breath on his skin as her lips touched his shoulder.

He'd let her rest before he tells her of these things — before he explains his fears; for explain he must — it would be impossible to keep from her something so big and so important to him. Surely she'd support him in his quest. Surely she'd welcome the thought of him being free from the dagger.

Of course she would. She knows how much he suffered. She saw him surrender the dagger to the witch, to save his son. Surely she'd understand that he would never want to get into the same position over her, or over his grandson...

So he slept easily by her side, and woke up with a musing smile the next morning, wondering when the right moment to talk to her would present itself. Yet, as it always happened with them, this proper, quiet moment never happened for, just as his consciousness fully returned, smile faded from his lips. He felt it again, this magic raging in town — much greater and much more dangerous than before, and chillingly familiar.

It appeared that magical happenings he felt yesterday did concern him, after all — an old adversary was responsible. And this new turn of events wouldn't be so easily dealt with.

They had to go to his shop — their honeymoon must have been the briefest in history. And then, when they were busy getting through his things, trying to figure out what went missing during the break-in that happened while they slept in the cursed house, it came... That moment, that sad moment, which brought him to here and now: looking at the all-powerful hat, and wondering at the corruption of good things and the persistence of evil.

The good ones came — Emma, and her pirate, and that Snowy Queen he heard some much about: the girl whom he never met, for she only came in contact with him when trapped in the magical urn. They wanted to ask what he knew of her, and of her sister — that chatty redheaded girl who first made him feel the power of the dagger over him. He had no intention of telling them much — not until he had all the information himself, not until he knew exactly what his old adversary, the real Snow Queen, had in mind. He tried to stall them, but they were insistent. And then, almost as a joke, a suggestion too absurd to be seriously contemplated, he offered that Belle would use the dagger and command him to tell the truth.

He was confident she'd refuse.

But, even as she protested, as he knew she would, even as she said 'You don't have to', he saw that look in her eyes — that glimpse of curiosity. She wanted to use the dagger. She wanted to know how it would feel. She wanted a taste of absolute power over him.

He couldn't believe it. Not her. Not Her!

But it was there, in her eyes — the wish to rule him by magic. By something other than her love for him. To order him around by the very thing that gave him so much grief...

Something snapped in him, there and then. His voice as he insisted on the test sounded brittle with irony, even to his own ears.

'Miss Swan wants to know the truth, and I am happy to cooperate'.

And she did it.

Goodness, she did it. She raised the dagger, called him 'Dark One', and commanded him to speak.

She did it. She!

And, even though the dagger was fake and he didn't feel any pull of power, it still hurt. It hurt like hell; it hurt even more than the real thing, for She was doing it. She was willingly abusing him.

It hurt as much as looking out of the window of his castle towards the winding road through the forest, abandoned by her, hoping for her to return, knowing that she never would.

She did return then, and he cast her away for trying to break his curse, and he lost her, and found her, and he neglected her and made her live through shame as a drunken wench, and they lost each other, and he returned from the death in the most horrible fashion, and all that suffering that he brought into her life polluted her soul. Living with him, being with him stained her heart.

The girl who came into his room as he sat by his spinning wheel, swinging her basket and demanding a kiss, never would have willingly abused him.

But she is the wife of the Dark One, and she is that much darker now.

She promised to side with him against everything else in the world, but she is a woman, and therefor susceptible to temptation — and there is no greater temptation than power. He knows that better than most. Better than anyone.

So he lied through his teeth, and said that he knew nothing of Elza and her sister, that red-haired chatter who was also so curious to learn about the dagger that has power over him, and felt his heart close to Belle, ever so slightly, even for just a fraction.

He cannot tell her the truth, now. He cannot reveal his plan. She had made this tiny step to join all the people who want to rule him — she, the only person who actually had this power by right. God knows what she'd do if she knew of his plans. Perhaps she'd tell the others. Perhaps she'd want to stop him. Perhaps she wouldn't want him to be free and uncontrolled.

She must have had it in her, all along; she always tended to order him around, to demand of him to do this and that, to promise this thing or other; and, when all the ugliest sides of her came out when she was calling herself Lacey, she became so possessive...

Oh no, she is not to blame: it was his closeness that corrupted her, his misery that soiled her life. She is full of _his_ fear; eager for _his_ power.

Everything bad that can happen will happen.

She didn't save him. _He_ ruined her.

Oh, what a fool he was to hope otherwise.

Did he forget that the last thing that came out of the Pandora's box, right after all the diseases and evils of the world, was _hope_?

No, she cannot be blamed for what happened. He is to blame, and he needs to fix it.

First of all, she must never, ever get hold of the real dagger. Power corrupts; he cannot let her be corrupted more.

Secondly, he must put every effort into the quest of cleaving himself from the dagger. He must fill this hat with magic, and get it done with. He must become a free man; he must save himself — for there is no other way to save her.

So he will lie, and trick, and kill and lie again — he will use all means to achieve his end. He will not be fighting for himself — he will be fighting for her. Just as he was fighting to find his lost boy, and spared no crimes to reach his goal.

And he will explain her nothing.

Ignorance is bliss.

He gives the magical hat glowing in front of him on the counter a rueful smile. This thing might ruin him, but he will make it save him — and save the only person who matters to him.

He turns the hat back into its' jewel-encrusted box, hides it, along with the dagger, and walks out of his shop to get home to his wife; she is waiting for him with romantic dinner, which would hopefully make him forget today's incident, and the brief uncomfortable silence that fell between them as the good ones left and she gingerly put the dagger back into her bag.

He will pretend that he has forgotten, of course. There is nothing more precious to him that her happiness and her peace of mind.

He walks through the dark town, trying to ignore the magical chill that comes upon it; frost is coming, threatening to ice over everything — every hope, every love.

He is planning his quest, much as he planned his quest of finding Bae.

And it doesn't occur to him that he is making the same mistake that he did then: keeping silence when he should have been honest, doing bad things to achieve a good end. He doesn't notice the resemblance; he sees no warning signs.

He is a man focused on his goal, and hope drives him on and gives him strength.

Hope, this most horrible of all the world's evils.


	43. Chapter 43

43

Be careful what you wish for, for your dreams may come true — isn't it what they usually say? It is not that our dreams can turn nasty to us when we see them realized; the problem is that we seldom express our wishes correctly — we just throw them into the air randomly, and exact realization of what we wished for could feel... surprising and unsettling. 'I didn't ask for _that_', people say. But if they just remembered what they actually asked for, it often appears that what upsets them is exactly what they wished for.

She wished to be together with him, always. She wished that nothing would stand between them — no secret quests, no previous obligations. She wished to be called Mrs. Gold. She wished him to say, out loud, 'I love you'. She wished to be married to him — she believed that once they were together, united in the eyes of the world just as they were in their souls, they would both find peace. She wished he would belong to her, only to her, and that it would make him happy.

Well, she had everything that she wished for, it seemed. They were together, and nothing threatened their union. Nothing stood between them: he had no one but her left in the world. She was Mrs. Gold now — he called her by this name sometimes with obvious satisfaction. He expressed his love for her, in many words and deeds. She was married to him, and the world accepted that. He belonged to her, only to her; he even gave her a magical token to support the romantic union of their hearts.

But it did not make him happy.

Something was amiss — with him, or with her, or with both of them.

Perhaps it happened too soon — though he was right, they waited thirty years for that, but still: perhaps they should have waited a bit more, waited until his great and fresh loss would fade from his mind, even if just a little. She did think of that, especially when she observed how Emma and her pirate were reunited in passion with almost indecent haste — right at Bae's graveside, it seemed. But then, things were different for them. They were both young and free spirits, there was no tortured history behind them. For him, marrying her so soon might have been a hysterical grasp for happiness — a blind hope to alleviate his immense grief by some warmth and light. He was on the brink of despair when he was marrying her — she could see that in his haunted eyes. How could she deny him his chance of consolation? How could she tell him to wait for something that she also wanted so badly — what she also saw as some irrational guarantee against all possible evils?

Yes, perhaps they married too soon. He seemed in such a strange mood there at the abandoned mansion — in a mood so different from the quiet happiness of their first married morning, so sunlit and bright and blissful. His mood changed noticeably as the day went on, and it must have been because he visited the graveyard; he became slightly distanced, distracted — as if he wasn't really listening to her, and his thoughts were elsewhere. Oh, his manners were perfect and his old-fashioned romantic gestures touching — she almost wept as she danced with him in that great hall, feeling very much a princess she once were. His lovemaking was insistent and even slightly frightening in its' intensity: he seemed to plunge into her as if into deep waters, as if trying to forget about something — to drive something terrible away. It must have been the thought of his loss. What else could it have been?

And then in the morning, he seemed so much calmer again: pensive, yes, and worried about new problems in town, but generally lighter and happier.

And then this thing happened — this incident with his dagger. Why, oh why did she agree to actually take the damned thing and use it on him? Why didn't she say to Emma and this snow girl, Elza: 'Leave him alone, he already told you everything he knows'? Didn't she realize how it would hurt him to see that she apparently doesn't trust him, just as others don't trust him? Didn't she realize how it would hurt him to feel himself under control again — so soon after the witch?

She did. Of course she did. But these things didn't stop her. And the reason for that made her cry and bite her lips and castigate herself once she was alone in the shop after he went on some mysterious errand of his. The reason was simple, and stupid, and childish, and unworthy of the love he gave her.

Ever since that moment in the library, just before the wedding, ever since that moment when the idea that her dagger is not real first occurred to her, and she resolved to never try and find out, she had this wish — this burning wish to do just that. To try and use the dagger. To summon him. To learn how it feels to have him completely on her own. She was like the girl in an old fairytale, whose husband went away and gave her the keys from all the rooms in his castle and told her to use all of them but one; and, once he was gone, she couldn't control her curiosity and used that very key, and opened a secret room that held evidence of unspeakable crimes her husband committed.

She didn't need to open any secret doors to learn of her husband's crimes — she knew them. Yet still she let her curiosity get the better of her, and it must have broke his heart.

Oh, how still and tense he stood before her as she held the dagger in front of him. How dead his face looked when she called him 'Dark One'.

How could she do this to him? She, of all people...

And the stupidest, the most nagging thing was that she felt nothing as she controlled him with the dagger. No surge of special power, no dark pull of magic. Her husband felt to her exactly as he always did: human, normal, beloved. Only at that very moment, terribly hurt.

He never mentioned this episode, not once — of course he wouldn't. He is not a man to reproach her; he is a model of gentleness and care, he brings her flowers every day and envelops her with tenderness every night.

Yet he hasn't forgotten. Of course he wouldn't.

And, as it sometimes happens with people who feel guilty — and she felt _very_ guilty for using the dagger — in time she started to turn her guilt over to the person they wronged; tried to shift the blame. What if she didn't feel anything when she held the dagger because it _was_ fake, and he just pretended to obey her? At the time, she thought nothing of his actual words — 'I don't know anything about Elza, or her sister', because she didn't realize that the sister they spoke of was Anna — the chatty and bright red-headed girl who helped her so when she tried to regain memories of her mother and whom she let down so dismally. For years she tried not to think of this episode for shame at being such a silly and childish person — such a coward. Yet she should have thought about it more often, because it changed her life; Anna spoke to her of the powerful and evil wizard from whom she took some magical hat, and on her way back to her own kingdom she read more of different wizards, and assumed it must be the Dark One, and persuaded her father to summon him to help in the ogre war, and he came — and there she is now, many years later, married to him.

And doubting him deeply for, if the sister they spoke of was Anna, then he _had_ heard about her — he even had a grudge against her.

How could he lie about that, if her dagger was real?

Yet how could he be so stupid as _to_ lie about that, if he wanted to conceal the truth about the fake dagger?

Her husband is _not_ stupid, that much is certain; if he knew anything about Anna, he would have told them — either to hide the nature of the dagger, or because he had no choice but to tell the truth.

And that meant only one thing: she was wrong about the wizard, all that time ago. Anna must have been telling about some other wizard — not him; and yet this misunderstanding brought on her love, and her marriage: if she didn't think that Anna spoke of Him, she'd never have made her father summon him, they'd never have met and fall in love.

She owed Anna her happiness, in a way. And yet she treated her so badly and she continued to keep her silence about the girl's fate out of sheer cowardice. She wanted people to think well of her — to treat her as a hero. Yet she was not a hero; she was the wife of the Dark One, and his opinion should have been the only one that mattered to her. Surely he wouldn't think badly of her for a bit of cowardice: he knows how powerful fear can be.

Or would he? He always thought so highly of her. He always said that she was his light, the epitome of goodness for him. Wouldn't he be disappointed to learn that she is weak and fallible?

She might have remembered how good and tolerant he was when she forgot herself and turned into a drunken slut called Lacey; how he put up with everything she did just for the sake of being with her. But she did not: her guilt, before him for using the dagger and before Anna for letting her down and keeping things back, was so great that she had worked herself into a completely hysterical state. She felt she had to undo what she once did — she felt that, if only Anna could be found and saved, the past would sort of disappear, and things would right themselves.

This manner of thought was very much like the one her husband was given to, when justifying his doubtful strategies. But she did not think of that, and doubt her reasoning or her reasons — she just wanted to prove herself a hero.

So she rushed into the shop one chilly day, and confronted him with her wish to fight the Snow Queen and when he refused, as she knew he would — as any sane person would! — she did it again. She pulled the dagger out of her bag and commanded him to follow her to the Queen's lair.

To do it once was bad enough. To do it again was unforgivable. What has come over her? What was she turning into? Where did the good, trusting, ever-hopeful girl, who always believed the best, go? What made her so addicted to power as to use the slightest excuse to pull the dagger at him? She could have reasoned with him; asked him nicely; told him the truth and explained why she really, really needs his help. She did nothing like that: eagerly and rashly she grasped the dagger, and abused its power yet again; just like Lacey when she was eager for another drink.

Did she become addicted to this thing? Did the dagger, which she carried with her always, infect her with its' darkness so that she'd stop at nothing at the chance to use it? Even the sight of her husband's terse, hurt and disappointed face didn't stop her, didn't bring her back to her senses.

She just stood there, staring at him madly, a cursed piece of steel with his name on it shaking slightly in her nervous hand.

He looked into her blazing eyes, and shut his eyes, for an instant, and lowered his head just a fraction, accepting his fate; and he went along with her.

And she didn't find anything wrong with that. She felt completely justified.

And, as it always happens, punishment came right after the crime.

She walked into the Snow Queen's cave and found a mirror — a magical mirror that captivated her completely. She looked beautiful in it, and determined, and strong; she was completely clear-headed, all dreams and illusions gone, only the harsh practical side of her remaining. And she spoke to herself — spoke the truth, the naked and ugly truth about everything in her life. She was a fool susceptible to silly dreams, a victim of manipulation and tricks; she was a coward who couldn't face the truth even when it stared her in the face; she believed in love and goodness, when there was nothing but selfishness and darkness. Of course the dagger was fake; of course he did not love her and trust her — how could he love and trust someone as silly and weak as her? How could he love at all — he belonged to darkness?..

He must have sensed that something wrong was happening to her; she did tell him to stay outside and guard her, and that's exactly what he did: he just felt that danger approached her from within the cave. He came in, and for a second she saw his horror-struck face reflected in the mirror along with hers, and in his handsome, dark-eyed, nervous face, which she caressed and kissed so often she saw ugliness much greater that he possessed when he actually looked like a monster. She saw an enemy who ruined her life; a beast who devoured her youth and hopes; a trickster who abused her love.

So she turned and she struck — she attacked him with the only weapon that could kill him, his dagger, and she even drew his blood.

And then he whisked her away — took her away from the mirror that told her the truth, and she was screaming and kicking, and trying to fight him, and then, suddenly, the spell was gone, and she was sobbing hysterically in his arms, on the floor of his shop, devastated by shame and guilt, clutching at him, deaf to his soothing words. She was terrified. What came over her? What was happening to her? Was it just the dark spell, or did something in her really turn into this dark, hateful creature unable to forgive, forget, trust and love anyone?

He cradled her in his arms as if she were a child. He told her that the spell was to blame — that everything the mirror told her was false. His voice was so gentle and his hands, as he pressed them to her cheeks, were so warm; the chill of the ice cave suddenly caught up with her, and she shivered. He kissed her brow, and her eyes, and whispered how beautiful she was — how much he loved her. He lowered his face so that his lips could find hers, and the next shiver she felt was not brought on by cold; it was brought on by that familiar, but ever-trilling sensation of their tongues touching, and his breath catching as he pressed her closer to him. She closed her eyes, and let her fingers caress his face, fingertips getting wet with his blood where she cut him. He did not stop her — he welcomed her touch, whenever she touched him with cold steel or soft skin. He let his lips trace down her neck; his fingers stroked her breast, and she gave out a soft moan. He lowered her on the floor, gently, and took off her clothes — slowly, caressing and kissing every bit of skin he uncovered. He remained fully clothed, looking at her, as she spread naked before him.

He let his hands fall limply by his sides, not touching her.

'You are so beautiful'.

His voice was so sad.

She pulled herself up to kiss his cut — right there on the spot between neck and jaw, where he loved her to kiss him.

'I love you', she whispered into his skin.

'Yes. And I love you too', came an echo — just as it did once before.

She wanted his touch, and told him so. He let his fingers run down her spine, and stroke her buttocks. He undid his clothes and pressed her to his naked skin, and he spread apart her legs and gently came between them, softly and slowly, as if afraid to break her, and they moaned and gasped as they felt and touched and became one, and she knew she was the silliest girl in the world to ever, ever doubt him. Everything that he did, he did for her — she could feel it in his touch. She could see it in his eyes.

Yet when everything was over and they stood up from the floor, smiling and laughing and checking whenever the door to the shop was closed, yet again, and went into the back room to get some tea and use sentimentally familiar comforts of his camp-bed, she still found a moment to check if the dagger was back in her bag.

Now would have been the perfect moment to give it back to him — to explain that it frightens her, that it burdens her with its darkness; she hurt him with it — who knows what other horrors it might prompt her to do?

Now would have been the perfect moment to give the dagger back to him.

But the thought never crossed her mind.


	44. Chapter 44

44

Dealing with madness is very unsettling: sick minds are unpredictable, their logic twisted. It is difficult to plan something — anything, in fact — when a mad person is at large; most intricate schemes would go awry because a madman (a madwoman, in his case) has taken some unexpected action. Even with his vast experience of his own madness he could not know in advance what the Snow Queen was planning — sick soul is always lonely, and labyrinths, into which it descends are unique for each sufferer. So for a while his planning was suspended: he had to wait and see what will happen in town before he could act and do anything to advance his course — his quest of getting himself free from the power of the dagger. He had to linger, to bide his time, and it was frustrating: he longed to act at once, to get it done with, to be free at last and to go on with living his life — loving his wife, building their future.

But, even if not for the unsettling presence of a madwoman pursuing her own weird goals, he was hindered further by the fact that he had to do what he had to do in this town, in this very small world encircled by enchanted wall and containing only so much magic. If he had the hat in his hands when he lived in his own world, his task of filling it with magic would have been achieved in no time — that land was full of all sorts of magical creatures, and they were all at his mercy. Here, in this small town, his choice of victims was limited. He could not do anything to Regina — she was like a daughter to him and anyway he had a distinct feeling that magic, with which the hat was to be filled had to be light magic — to oppose the power of darkness that bound him to the dagger, it had to be so. And, even if he overcame his sentimental affection to the Evil Queen, he was not sure that the amount of light magic that she possessed was enough to render her suitable. Otherwise, there were not such a great number of light magicians at hand; there was the Snow Princess, and there was Emma, and there were fairies... And he could not attack any of them without attracting too much attention. It would not do to blow his case and publicly appear a villain again when all he wanted and needed to do was to gain freedom so as not to be _forced_ to be a villain again — ever.

So he had to wait, and think, and use every chance life gave him to advance his cause. When that foolish pirate delivered himself into his hands, opening himself to blackmail and coercion, he was delighted: it was a pleasure to torture this dashing fellow and it was extremely convenient to have someone apparently open-hearted to do his dirty work for him. He enjoyed their little adventure with the Sorcerer's apprentice — he hated this old man ever since the episode with red-headed chatty girl and failed attempt to steal the hat, and he was glad to add that much (or that little) magic to the hat. He loved every moment of it — the disappearance of the old man, the acute discomfort this whole scene gave Hook. He felt completely justified in using and teasing the pirate: they may have done with trying to kill each other, but he would never forget that this man stole his wife from him — and now was stealing the heart of a woman his son loved.

Yet he felt that these little pleasures and trivial pursuits were driving him away from his main goal, and he felt the urgency of his task growing every second that he stayed in this town, exposed to hidden power of the mysterious Sorcerer; every second that his dagger remained in Belle's hands, poisoning her sweet soul with its' power. She shocked him deeply when she 'controlled' him with the dagger and made him come to the Snow Queen's cave with her; not because she used the dagger again, he already lived through that pain and told himself he could bear it. It was the sight of her agitated face, eyes glaring with madness of power, the sound of her frantic voice, jarring on the edge of screaming as she ordered him around; the despair of her tears afterwards, when the spell of the evil mirror broke and she saw the horror of her actions — these things broke his heart and convinced him that he was right. She had to be saved; she had to be spared the temptation.

She had to be freed from the dagger, as much as he himself.

His task was growing urgent, and he had no way to advance his business. And then, as it sometimes happens, things changed in his favor and the very circumstances that hindered him turned to his advantage. The Snow Queen, following her twisted course, proceeded to awake uncontrollable power in Emma, and there it was — a source of power entirely light and big enough to fill the hat at once; and, moreover, that stupid girl actually asked him to help her get rid of her magic — begged for it, despite his very honest warnings that such a spell might backfire. Right, he was not entirely honest with her; he did not tell her everything. But then, she never asked. She never thought to ask — 'Will this hurt me?' She only cared for safety of people around her, and he could promise her that, no problem.

She was not interested in fine points of the deal; all the worse for her, all the better for him.

He would have had no trouble explaining the tragedy when it would have happened: the spell was too powerful, Emma's magic was too strongly entwined with her physical being, and the woman got destroyed along with her gift. Tragic, tragic thing, but not his fault; he was just a tool, a hesitant but obliging tool; the blame, if there was any blame to speak of, would have fallen on the shoulders of the people who encouraged her to get rid of magic — to become normal: her parents.

Did he feel any qualms at the prospect of destroying the mother of his grandson?

No.

She forgot his son.

She fell into the arms of another man just a few short days after his death. She mocked his memory with every soppy kiss she gave the pirate. His boy, who has driven through different worlds to be with her, who had remained alive inside another body just for a chance to see her again — he was forgotten as soon as his grave closed. She moved on — oh so fast...

He owed her nothing.

She was just a tool for him, an eager and foolish tool, an end to achieve his aim.

His grandson would be much better off without a mother like that — just as Bae was much better off without _his_ mother, who fell for the same pirate... He would bring the boy up, in a much better way than he brought up his father. He and Belle; she would help him. Surely she sees this situation as completely awkward and indecent, just as he does.

Oh no, he had no qualms. And when he learned that, in order for his grand spell to work, he has to crush the heart of the pirate, he was stunned by the beauty of it, by the sublime justice that presented itself in this solution. People who kissed and embraced at his son's grave had to be destroyed together for his task to be completed — wasn't it right and just? Rarely, very rarely did the great symmetry of things present itself with such clarity; rarely did the price of magic manifest itself so clearly.

It was a perfect plan. And, as all best laid out plans, it failed. It failed because of stupid girlish prattle, because little snow princess came to save her little blond friend: Emma didn't face the hat, her magic wasn't absorbed into it — instead, she chose to 'accept herself' and her magic. And, in doing that, these stupid girls finally gave the mad Snow Queen what she wanted — enough power to enact her curse upon the town.

Making his task all the more urgent, for he was running out of time now and _had_ to free himself from the dagger to save his wife and his grandson.

Making his task all the more impossible for the simple solution was denied him.

Brining him back to square one, with nothing gained but the heart of his enemy, torn out of his chest and kept for further use and eventual destruction.

He had to act quickly. He had to think fast. He had to take drastic measures and, with the town's collapse imminent, he knew that he could allow himself some callousness.

The hat had to be filled with magic, and fast. There was nothing left to fill it with but magic of the fairies and, even though it did not feel just as immediately satisfying as destroying his son's unfaithful lover, it was actually probably even more just. His son got lost because of fairies' scheming; they wanted to get rid of the Dark One and they gave his son a magical bean to take them both away to a different world. The boy perished alone, for his father was a coward; and his father was left with a burning wish to redeem himself — and with an undying hatred for the flying pests that started the chain of events. They started it — they stole his son, they left him no choice but to build a curse and create this town. It was more than just that they would have to die for him to leave this town and all his sorry past behind.

Rarely had he felt such pleasure as when, feeling all magic happening in town as he always did, he heard their frightened screams as they were sucked into the hat, held by his obedient puppet, the pirate; as he felt their cursed light disappear from the world and reappear inside a hat — filling it with small dots of light, pin-points of power — small magical stars to mirror great stars on the sky above him, unseen now, for it was daylight still, but present there, behind the clouds, and getting ready to greet him when the time came to enact his final spell — the final act of magic he would perform with his dagger before it becomes a useless piece of old steel.

Avenged at last.

And soon, very soon he would be free at last.

He trembled all over, he could barely contain his excitement as he held his wife in his arms, urging her to hide in his shop as the curse of the Shattered Sight, built by mad Snow Queen, a curse that made people see the worst in their loved ones, raged over the town. He was not even sure she'd get affected by it: she was exposed to the cursed mirror already, after all, and survived the spell — she might be partially or entirely immune to it. Yet he could not take the risk — he didn't want her to suffer again as she'd look at him and see the worst in him _and_ in herself, as she did in the ice cave.

No, he couldn't take that risk.

And he didn't want to have to explain to her his unnatural glee, his great joy, as he'd watch the destruction of this town, this place that he created and where he suffered so much and hoped in vain.

Deep in his heart of hearts he knew that it was darkness in him that gloried in all this pain and horror.

And he needed to be away from the light of his love to live through this awful glory.

So he stood on the pier, with cold sea and darkening sky behind him, stood with his dagger in hand, unconcealed now, for soon there would be no one to notice, and soon this dagger wouldn't matter anymore; stood with his eyes half-closed and his nostrils flaring, absorbing all the pain and fear around him, knowing that every scream and curse are brining him closer to his victory; knowing that, as soon as this storm of magic would pass, leaving a desert on its' wake, he'd be able to liberate himself.

He stood there, breathing in pain and darkness, listening to wailing and tears. And so great was his tormented joy, so great was his anticipation of glory that among this wave of human suffering he failed to distinguish one voice, quietly screaming in pain — one voice that should have mattered to him most of all; the only voice he should have cared about.

He did not hear Her, crying in the locked back-room of his shop, reliving all her pain and humiliation and fears; he did not hear her sobbing as she glanced at all the things they touched over the course of their love, from her chipped cup to the very bed on which they first knew each other, and regret every step she ever took towards him; he did not feel her heart open to darkness of despair and rejection; he did not hear her reproofs; he did not feel how her heart turned over from self-pity toward accusing him — condemning him and cursing him.

He did not feel her summoning him with the dagger, so that she could throw her curses to his face. He did not feel her rage at her failure.

He did not hear her voice among other voices.

He couldn't tell her darkness from all the darkness around him.

He was in the dark as to her feelings and tears.

He was in the dark.


	45. Chapter 45

45

It was very chilly in the back of the shop; that was not unusual in itself, for he never liked over-warmed rooms and kept everything in the house and in the shop well aired. The air in the places he liked was always fresh. But today, there was something else to this freshness — it felt like a deeper chill, it went beyond clothes and skin right to her bones, freezing her from the inside — gripping her very heart with desolation and gloom. Filling her soul with a sense of dark foreboding, as if something terrible, something irredeemable was about to happen.

She told herself: 'This is silly'. She saw her beloved husband just a minute ago, and he smiled at her brightly and held her in his warm embrace; he was collected and slightly tense, which was only natural in view of the curse falling upon the town again. Yet at the same time he was strangely elated; he looked almost happy in the face of approaching danger, and she guessed he must have some secret plan to fight it; a plan he did not share with her, but that was only natural too: he was a man and a wizard, he had to have his secrets. He kissed her, and held her to his heart, and told her everything would be well — they just had to survive the night. And, though she would have preferred to be with him when the spell of the Shattered Sight came, for she would have preferred to be with him all the time, after all the curses and losses that came upon them, she understood why he had to be away from her. This evil spell was supposed to wake the worst feelings in everyone; it was trying even for the most harmonious of couples, like Charmings, for example. They were not the most harmonious of couples, her husband and she, even at the best times; she remembered her reaction to the enchanted mirror and her attempt to strike him with the dagger. Imagine what she might do under a stronger spell... No, it was wise of him to stay away from her until the spell broke and his plan, whatever it was, was completed.

He smiled so confidently — she was sure his plan is good. It was silly to be afraid. He left her alone, locked in; but that was just because he cared for her — for her safety. He had a tendency to leave her alone and locked for her own good. That was his way of showing his love.

It was silly to be afraid, and it was silly to feel alone. He was here, in the same town, he was safe, and he was busy — she could feel that he was engaged in some magic.

It was strange that he didn't ask her for his dagger, though. She would have thought that he might need it at such grave hour.

If only it wasn't so cold here! It seemed that she never felt a cold like this. Not even in her cell in a madhouse, where she waited for so many years for the curse to break — and she felt very, very cold and alone there.

'Why didn't he come looking for me while I was kept there?', she wondered suddenly. He must have remembered her; why didn't he try to save her? Did he really, really believe her dead? Surely the Dark One would have a way to check such a thing — he had his crystal ball and everything... But he never bothered; he grieved her, yes, and he was very happy when she came back to him, alive. But he never bothered looking for her and sparing her sufferings. It was easier for him to believe her dead. Dead, she didn't threaten his grand plans. Alive, she was an obstacle for him; she stood in the way of what he wanted to do.

It was _convenient_ for him that she was dead.

What kind of a man would leave his beloved in a cell of a madhouse for 28 years just because he needed freedom to act?

She squeezed her eyes shut, and opened them again, trying to get rid of the strange dizziness that came upon her. It must be the cold and the loneliness affecting her; how could she think such a horrid thing about him? Doesn't she know why he had to be free from loving her while he built his curse? He did it for his son. He did everything to bring him back; his son was the first and foremost person in the world for him, always.

His son — his own blood — was always much more important to him than she. If he had to choose, he never hesitated, not once. He always chose Bae. She always had to accept that; he never even asked, never consulted her, never let her help him. At the slightest excuse, he'd turn away from her.

She was always second best for him. He married her only when Bae died; if he couldn't have his son, she'd do all right to sooth his loneliness...

He never thought of asking her to marry him before. Not when she was restored to him alive, and he gave this fine performance, with tears and shaking hands and mutterings of 'You're real, you are alive...' Not when they made love, on this very bed here; made love when she actually forgiven him his terrible, terrible lie — his broken promise to her!.. No, he proceeded to live with her, as if she was a kept woman, assuming that she'd want nothing but just to be at his side! And whatever she did, however much she helped him, he never even thought of asking her to marry him. He never even told her he loved her — 'I love you, too' is _not_ the same thing! All their reunions were her doing: she wished him to come back from Neverland, she brought him back from the dead, she gripped the bars of his cage when he was imprisoned, she made love to him the moment he came through the door... She even asked him on this silly hamburger date, for goodness sake!

He never did a damn thing to be reunited with her. He was always ready to walk away. 'I must go, Belle, and you have to stay here!' 'Run!' 'Get away from here, Belle!' 'I don't want you anymore!' Of course, he had so many stronger ladies to choose from. Like Cora — a woman that tore her heart from her chest so as not to love him, just how romantic is that! Like this green witch — he must have had a thing for her to stay in her power for so long. He is the Dark One, for pity's sake — couldn't he trick her, couldn't he think of something to get himself free, if he really _wanted_ to be free and come back to her?

Come to think of it, he never even expressed any wish to be with her. He assumed she'd always be there for him; every time she'd try to free herself, he'd get angry and scream 'I don't want to lose you', as it that was enough. He was possessive, but ungracious. He treated her as if she was one of his 'things'. Not a person with a heart — not a woman who loved him.

Ah, but he never really needed her love! Her love hindered him. He always refused it. He pushed her away when she kissed him in his castle; he told her his magic was more important to him than she; he was always ready to say good-bye. She always thought these were just words, that his feelings pulled him towards her despite his words. But clearly she was mistaken — her silliness, her naïveté spoke in her when she looked into his closed face, with his flat, dark eyes, time after time, and convinced herself that in reality he wants her with him.

He just tolerated her, really. He wanted a warm body and a compassionate ear; he never wanted her to love him. And he didn't love her.

Oh well, he died to save her, when he stabbed his father. But it wasn't really to save her, right? It was all for Bae; she just happened to be present there, on that street, as well.

The room was very, very cold now, but she seized feeling the chill. She was hot with shame. She threw herself at him all the time, and he never wanted her. She acted a hero, she wanted to save him and help him — and he never needed that! He was completely, perfectly happy without her. He just accepted her presence. He never wanted her. He happened on her by chance — oh God, she brought him to her father's castle herself, as if irrationally wishing to enter into this crazy relationship! He found her by chance, and couldn't get rid of her ever since.

No wonder he treated her as a tiresome pet or a clingy child.

He never _chose_ her. And, given a real choice, he never would.

She circled the room now, tearful and angry — with him, for being such an insensitive beast, and with herself for lacking any dignity. She convinced herself that loving him was the meaning of her existence! She told herself she was born for that! Everything that happened between them was a lie or, at best, a cruel twist of fate — and she believed it was great destiny! True love!.. Really, dearie, as he'd say!..

Her life had purpose before she orchestrated their meeting. She had plans and dreams. She had important mission in life; she had a country to rule, a family to tend to. And he ruined all that — by coming and taking her away and using her silly infatuation with him he ruined all that; he turned her into a weak, submissive, lonely woman who is so desperate for his attention that she's ready to stay with him even when he doesn't want her. She is ready to twist his every cruel word in her mind until it turns in her favor. She is ready to believe his every lie. She is ready to turn a blind eye on every crime he commits...

How could she come to that? How could she allow it? She used to be bright and proud... How did she miss a moment when she lost herself?

She wished she could tear _her_ heart from her body, so as not to suffer this humiliation — this cruel awakening to the truth of her 'love' for her husband, and his 'love' for her.

Didn't she tell herself, back when he send her away (note this, _he sent her away, _for the first time in many a time to come!) to fetch some straw, that her love for him is an evil spell? She was right then. Oh, if only she'd listen to herself then — she would have been spared so many sufferings, so many futile tears and silly hopes! She would have been herself still.

How, oh how is she to live now? How to gain back her dignity? How to earn her own respect and how to acquire pride again?

Tears were running down her face now — angry frustrated tears. She was mourning her lost youth, her abused love, her broken heart and all the years spent in blindness of the obsession she thought to be love. She looked around her, and every thing her eyes fell on added to her grief and pain and anger, for every thing in this room was _his_, and every thing in this room was somehow connected with their so-called love.

That bed, on which she gave herself to him — oh, so willingly.

That chipped cup, which brought them together so many times.

That dagger, which he gave her with a promise to belong to her forever.

Her hand grasped the handle almost on its' own volition.

She raised the blade to level of her face, and whispered through her tears: 'I summon thee, Dark One...'

It didn't work.

She knew it wouldn't work. This dagger wasn't real.

How could he give his real dagger to a woman who meant nothing to him?

And, even with this knowledge, even with all her freshly gained conviction of the futility and falsehood of all their love story, it still hurt... The fact that he didn't trust her at all; the fact that he gave her a fake thing and spoke of love, with his lying, cunning face, with his eyes so seemingly warm and gentle... It hurt.

The pain was so sharp that she dropped the dagger; her legs gave way, she had to sit down and ended on the bed, sobbing aloud, gripping his pillow — just as she gripped it when he was gone to Neverland and she believed him dead, just as she gripped it when he _was_ dead, and she prayed for him to be alive and back in her arms, at any price.

All, all just silliness and naïveté and weakness. All her life — a fake, just as this dagger on the floor at her feet.

She did not know for how many hours she sat there, sobbing, her mind clouded with grief and self-pity. Eventually tiredness overcame her; she didn't notice sleep taking hold of her. She fell asleep on the camp bed dumbly, as if losing conciseness.

Her sleep was dark and dreamless.

She woke up to the gentle touch of his fingers on her tear-stained cheek; she opened her eyes to see his smiling face. He looked happy and peaceful; there was great tenderness and love in his eyes, and some mischief — all the things she loved about him.

The room was bright and warm.

Events of last night, all her tears and self-revelations felt like a bad dream — foggy and near forgotten already.

He told her he had a surprise for her — he wanted to take her traveling. To take her away from the town, which somehow survived another curse, and have proper honeymoon with her.

He was a perfect husband — loving, caring. All hers.

By the time she got up and he gave her some tea, all thoughts of the night before were gone. The memories remained, but they were already distanced; she was under evil spell then, the whole town was. It meant nothing.

He went away to make some final arrangement before their journey, and she started packing her things, as he told her to. She was busy with this happy activity when an unexpected thing fell out of the debris collected in one of the corners of the shop. She didn't register its' significance first — her husband was such a hoarder, she wondered if he himself knew just exactly what he had in his possession. But then she had a closer look at the rusty gauntlet that fell on the floor, and she remembered.

She had seen it before at his castle and, considering the frightening episode, which was connected to it, it was a wonder that she forgot about it. She remembered now, very clearly, as if it happened yesterday. It was a foggy, wet day, and he seemed restless — irritated. It was shortly after the day when she fell from the ladder, right into his arms, and he was so stunned by it and looked at her with such intensity; she enjoyed that fall, it felt so nice to be embraced by him. But right after that fall one of his quirky moods came upon him, and he started snapping at her all the time — distancing himself from her. She took her time, not trying to presume upon him: she knew the mood would pass and he'd get friendly again — he couldn't stay away from her for long. That day he brought this gauntlet from some far kingdom — Camelot, was it, and told her of its' qualities. This gauntlet, he said, could show anybody's greatest weakness. 'And our greatest weakness, dearie, is usually someone we love'.

She remembered it well, for her girlish imagination immediately asked: 'I wonder what weakness this gauntlet would show if used against _you_?..' But she didn't dare to voice the question; he _was_ in a foul mood, after all. So she went about her chores, and went to fetch the clothing that was drying outside, castigating herself for forgetting about it — on such a foggy day it was bound to get wetter than it was before... And then she saw a lovely little dog, and followed it foolishly, and was captured by some evil witches. And then she learned what the gauntlet would show if used on her master; it was _her_. He came to save her when her life was threatened. He actually gave up the gauntlet to save her life when one of the witches was ready to crush her heart.

She was very impressed. She remembered his outbreak when the thief (so strange to think that this fellow was Regina's fancy man now!) stole the magic wand, and her future husband screamed that 'his things' are untouchable.

She asked him, then: 'Why do you care for me?'

'I don't', he said, and gave her one of his sad, longing looks. And then, as was his habit, he collected himself and continued: 'But if anyone is going to crush your hurt, it would be me'.

She had thought that he was lying when he said he doesn't care for her, then.

She had thought that him breaking her heart was an impossibility.

He loved her — it was so obvious then, even if she didn't say the words, to herself, she knew now she already acted upon this inner knowledge.

But he wasn't lying when he said he doesn't care for her, was he?

It was true.

And he wasn't lying when he said he'd break her heart.

He did.

He broke her heart, many times over. With his rejections. With his coldness. With his choices, that were never in her favor.

With his lies.

As the whole town celebrated its' happy deliverance from the spell of the Shuttered Sight, which made everyone see the worst in their loved ones, as happy couples embraced, laughing at silly accusations they made against each other, wife of the Dark One stood alone in the middle of his shop, looking at the magical object able to reveal his great weakness, and felt her heart, warmed by his gentle smile this very morning, freeze again.

It was easy for other lovers to forget their anger and their mutual accusations, for they were but lies and trifles. It was impossible for her to forgive and forget, for what she accused him of was, actually, true.

The dagger he gave her was fake.

Everything he told her was a lie.

He never chose her when he had a choice. He never really wanted her by his side.

And, in case she was mistaken or hysterical again, there was an easy way to check it.

She picked the gauntlet from the floor, and looked it over. Such an old and rusty thing; yet he took the trouble to get it back from the witches...

Slowly, as in a dream, she raised the gauntlet to her face and whispered: 'Show me his greatest weakness'.

A man's greatest weakness — a thing he loves most...

As she followed the pull of the rusty thing, as it drove her across town from the shop towards the clock tower over the library, she never stopped to consider her actions — to analyze them... She never stopped to check herself, to remember her goodness or her ability to hope, which he praised so much. She never stopped to smile and tell herself: 'Well, of course this gauntlet cannot show me _myself_ — I am using it... It will show me the next best thing'.

The girl who trusted her heart was gone — her husband's wife, she chose to trust magic.

The girl who always believed the best was gone.

She was ready to believe the worst.

_He_ often said that, when you believe the worst, that is exactly what will come to pass.

He was right, as always.

It was twilight, and stars started to show on the sky. It their milky light the scene in the tower was surreal. Heroes, frozen at the bottom of the stairs. The pirate, his face twisted in agony.

She barely noticed them — her eyes were only for her husband.

He looked incredibly majestic as he stood there, bathed in starlight, his face aglow with power, his body electrified, his hand holding a gleaming heart he was about to crush.

She felt as if it was _her_ heart he was holding in his hand.

The gauntlet twitched slightly as it brought her to a long, darkly glowing thing resting on the floor by her husband's feet.

His dagger. His greatest weakness.

A thing he loved most.

Not her. Never her.

His dagger. His power.

He always found an excuse: his son, his freedom, her safety.

He always found an excuse to choose power over her, and he always would.

She wouldn't let him.

Her hand closed on the handle of the dagger, and finally she felt it — its' immense and terrible power, dark and gripping, boundless; power over the most powerful wizard of the world.

Her husband. Completely hers, finally, whenever he wants it or not.

She raised the dagger, and willed him to obey her, and felt a great coldness of power enter her heart.


	46. Chapter 46

46

He did not feel it. The power of the dagger — in the end, he didn't even feel it.

He spent so many years fearing it and yet somehow anticipating it, until a chatty redheaded princess made him feel it, briefly, and he hated it. He spent so many years fearing it would happen again; he lived through a year of horror living under the spell, when the witch held him in her power. He lived in constant fear he'd have to suffer it again — that heavy suffocating feeling of impotence, that dreadful weight of alien will binding him, separating him from his self. He'd wake up at night with a stifled cry, drenched in cold sweat, when he dreamed that it happened again. He closed his heart to his beloved for fear that she would to control him; he closed his heart to her even though he knew he provoked her to do it — why did he do that? Did he _want_ to be disappointed? Did he want an excuse to harden his heart and concentrate on his quest of freeing himself — the quest that made him lose himself, break his promise to his son, break his promise to himself — the quest that made him break his marriage vows? That quest of freeing himself made him a slave to his old self — brought him so much closer to the bitter, lonely, distrustful man he used to be before he met her and loved her. Perhaps it was a price of that ultimate deal: he had to become truly dark again to severe his connection with the source of his dark power. Or perhaps he was deluding himself; perhaps he was just very, very confused and unable to even start living a life of a normal, loving man. Too much time and pain and power and loss on his shoulders to shake them off so easily and just... live; he spent a lifetime depending on magic for solving his problems — how could he suddenly believe that no magic was required for simple bittersweet happiness her love could give him?

It did not matter now, all his convoluted reasoning. He embarked on his selfish quest fully believing he was doing it for love; he did shameful, bad things for all the good reasons. And he did the worst thing he could along the way — he rejected her, yet again. He closed his heart to her...

And he succeeded in his quest — all that he did and all he kept silent about brought him to this moment, this truly glorious moment when he stood there, under the starry sky, feeling the magic of their light connect with magical stars in the Sorcerer's hat, and ran through his veins, endowing him with true omnipotence — how absurd of him was to feel all-powerful when he was reborn as the Dark One, his power then was child's play compared to what was in his grasp now: the complete power of freedom, just there, an inch away — just a twitch of his fingers on his enemy's heart, and the whole world would be his.

And the power of his dagger, held in his true love's trembling hand, stopped him. And he didn't even feel it — that power that he dreaded so much. Apart from inability to close his fingers over the gleaming heart in his hand, he felt nothing. No dread, no treat, no pressure of alien will.

For the power that stopped him was not alien. It was Her power: his love, his heart.

How ridiculous of him was to fear her. If only he did not fear her, so many suffering could have been spared; so many lies; so much heartbreak.

Yet how terribly she was changed now, because of his fear and his lies and her pain.

How stern, and decisive, and cold in her determination to do the 'right thing'; to stop him — to punish him.

How cruel she was, and how powerful.

What happened to his bright, loving, hopeful and ever-forgiving girl?

What has he done to her to change her so?

He looked into her face, into her eyes, so full of light once and clouded with tears now, and couldn't recognize her. She forsook everything she ever cherished; she was always so curious, she urged him to tell her everything all the time... She didn't want to listen to him now. She was always so compassionate, sometimes she felt his pain even stronger than he himself did, it seemed; she had no pity for him now, none at all — not for his fear, not for his pain, not for his reasoning.

She always saw the best in him and it made him hope — it made him strive to be better.

She only saw the worst now, and delivered him to darkness.

If only she'd listen to him, let him explain... Her arguments, choked through heart-wrenching tears as they were, were silly — absurd. She used that stupid gauntlet to find his 'greatest weakness, the thing he loved the most', and it showed her his dagger — not her. So she was convinced he loved power over most things... His silly, silly darling; she was using the gauntlet, and of course it couldn't show her his greatest weakness — herself.

She was his weakness. For Her he needed his power; for her he needed his freedom.

If only she'd let him explain. If only she'd listen. He never spoke up when she urged him to be honest; he wanted to reveal everything now, and she wouldn't listen... Just how ironic was that?

She didn't want to listen. She didn't even want to think. She saw nothing but herself — her hurt, her pain. 'I only wanted you', she said. And he heard an echo of her voice, then in forgone times in his castle, asking him if he was a man once — an ordinary man; and he remembered his bitter thought of how she wouldn't have noticed him, ever, if he were ordinary; the princess that she was, she would just walk past the pitiful creature he used to be.

He came to believe, in years past, that she had some secret knowledge of his true self — that when she said 'you' she spoke of some wholesome inner person he could be if he only tried hard enough.

Could it be that he was wrong, and all the time she said, 'I see the man you are inside', she did not see the real him — she just saw the man she wanted?

She saw what she wanted to see, his beautiful young princess. And now all she wanted to see was the beast who broke her heart.

'I wanted to be chosen', she sobbed.

Didn't she know she was, many, many times? Didn't she remember? Did she really believe that everything that happened between them — all their long-suffering love — was a lie? Couldn't she, standing here on the town-line, recall a similar scene — a moment when she was sending him to find Bae, and promising him she'd wait for him when he returns — wait for him forever if needs be? That was just a moment before he lost her to the attack of the very pirate whom she saved today. Didn't she remember that? Was he the only one to remember the light in her eyes, the love in her voice, the faith in her heart?

She promised him she'd go with him, forever, once.

And now she was slowly and relentlessly pushing him towards the town-line — out of her life.

What happened to their forever?

What happened to their love?

It would have been so easy to blame her change on the dagger still shaking in her hand. How weird it was that he still didn't feel the power — did not suffer from it. He had to obey it, yes — but in such a different way from all previous occasions... It would have been easy to blame everything on the dagger. It would have been easy to think that she was still somehow under the spell of Shattered Sight: the thief's wife did not recover from the ice magic completely; perhaps his wife was afflicted as well.

It would have been easy to blame magic for what was happening. But, as he listened to her tears, as he looked into her eyes, as his heart broke in pain for her pain as well as for his own he finally caught the main thing she was saying — the thing she meant to say all the time as she accused and argued...

'I lost myself', she said. 'I lost myself trying to help you find your way'.

He knew was she was talking about — he knew how it feels when the thing you love most is stealing your life's purpose. He lived through it once, when he was falling in love with her, once upon a time in his magical castle, and knew that this love cannot be, for it would distract him from finding his son. He had to choose between his power and his love, then, and chose power, because it _was_ his self then and he needed his self to find his child.

She had to choose between her love and her self now. She had to stay complete; she had to remain whole, and that meant she had to push him away.

He could understand that.

He did the same thing once.

And he knew suddenly and clearly that whatever he'd say now would have no effect on her, wouldn't make her change her mind. Nothing she said then made him change his. 'It was working! That means it's true love!..', she cried then, and he screamed at her to shut up.

'I don't want to lose you', he said now, in such a weak, weak voice.

'You already have', said his cruel young wife.

And he looked into her beautiful tearful face and saw a shade of his own features, contorted with rage, as he pushed her away back then.

She was pushing him away now, and he moved obediently.

He looked at her slight figure, all tensed in her effort to part with him, and remembered the icy stiffness of his body as he came into her cell and told her he did not need her any more.

She did not see him back then as he raged around the castle, screaming and sobbing and breaking things over his loss of her, but he knew she felt his pain as she sat in her cell.

Stepping backwards over the line, losing his balance, falling on his knees he lost sight of her; he could not see her anymore, for they were in different worlds now, but he did not need to see her to know that she reels with pain, and tries so very hard not to look at him over her shoulder; he did not need to hear her to know that she is crying. He could feel all that, for they were connected still.

It was working. It was true love; no amount of hurt could change that.

Just as he didn't realize that their separation would diminish his love and his pain, back then, she didn't realize that physically banishing him from her life wouldn't heal her heart.

She said she doesn't want him or need him anymore, just as he did, then. But, just as he was wrong then, she was wrong now. She wouldn't find herself — oh he wished she could, for her happiness, but it was impossible; they made it impossible with all their eternal vows.

She wouldn't find herself without him.

All she'd have is an empty heart and a chipped cup.

She left the town-line — she stumbled away, sobbing and still clutching his now useless dagger in her hand. He didn't need to see over the magical border to know it; he knew how she'd act now — how she'd be brave and useful and collected; his little princess. His hero.

He knew her so well.

He remained alone in the middle of the road for a long time, still on his knees. Strangely, he didn't feel much — no heartbreak, no loss; he thought that his understanding of her ultimate justice sustained him, until he realized he was shaking all over.

He didn't feel much because he was stunned; he was in shock and, as it started to pass, he became aware of the world around him. The coldness of the air and of the stones on which he sat. The muffled sounds of the forest. The impenetrable darkness of the night.

Something was different about him, as well. He frowned, and concentrated, and then he understood, and had to smile wryly.

His leg, his mutilated leg was hurting.

He was human again.

She did what she always wanted to do, than. Changed him.

Not for long.

If she did not know what he is inside, if she was confused, he'd show her. 'I know that you are confused about yourself, so I'm going to tell you...' He did it once. He'd do it again.

She'd find herself when she finds him. They'll do it together. There is no other way for them.

It would take some time and effort, that is true. It would take some careful planning and wit. He had no problem with that; he could plan for years, and he had plenty of wits; used to live by his wits only for years and years, before he found magic.

No magic, now. Oh but he doesn't need it — not yet, anyway.

Didn't need magic to die. Wouldn't need magic to build a new life.

Uncertainly, unsure of his footing he stands up and limps towards the forest edge — to find himself a fallen branch, to turn it into a cane. He needs a cane to walk away from here; for to ultimately return here he needs to travel far away first, and form new alliances with old enemies.

Ah, this piece of wood would do nicely — it would do fine before he gets a chance to find a proper cane.

It feels strangely comforting and even... pleasant to walk along the road with his new cane. He was so used to walking like that — he did it for twenty eight years, after all.

And all these years he thought she was dead — lost to him forever.

Even if angry and far away from him, she is alive now. And if she is alive, nothing is lost.

He walks through the night briskly, half-smiling, his mind busy with planning.

He walks through the darkness that surrounds him, darkness that tries to whisper to him; it is frantic; it doesn't understand what is going on.

Yet he is oblivious to it.

He is human now, and darkness has no hold over him.


	47. Chapter 47

47

She thought she'd cry for days. Every time she lost him before, she was devastated - lost to herself and to the world.

In fact, her hysterical outburst proved to be brief. Her eyes were dry by the time she stumbled back to town and stood hesitantly in the middle of the Main Street, clutching her useless dagger, unsure of her next move. Where should she go? To her - His house? She cast its owner - her husband - out of town - out of her life. Does she have a right to go and sleep in their empty bed now?

Would she be able to sleep, at all?

She couldn't go to his shop, as well - for the same reasons.

Normally she would have gone to Granny's Diner. Yet what would she find there? All the good people in town, happy in their reunions and deliverances from evil; angry at her husband; full of pity for her; and also strangely apprehensive, for she did something unspeakable today - something no one expected of her.

She cancelled true love. By sheer effort of her angry will she undid the bound that linked her to him always, in darkest times and in happiest ones. She severed the link that survived death itself. She was that powerful. Or that stupid. Or that desperate... Who would have thought that gentle, all-forgiving Belle would do such a thing? How would they look at her now? What would they see in her?.. They all have been through a lot, but none of them ever did anything like that. None of them looked a person they loved more than life right into tear-filled eyes and said with cruel finality: "Go away. I don't need you anymore".

Only he did that - to her, once upon a time in his castle. But he was the Dark One - a beast, a monster. He did what was expected of him.

And now she did that to him.

Who was she, after that? A hero, who saved people in moment of danger? Or a selfish monster who put her immediate feelings above greater good and pushed away a person in need?

She couldn't answer these questions herself, and she didn't want to meet glances of the good people asking those same questions of her. So she couldn't go to Granny's.

Yet she needed to go somewhere for warmth and company - she needed to be somewhere with people, so she wouldn't have to really, really think of what she did and what would become of her now that she quit her "job": loving him, giving him hope and light. A job she wasn't awfully good at, it appears, anyway.

Decision came suddenly and almost unconsciously, rising from somewhere deep in her mind - from the confused and sad part of her that knew how to live without him; from Lacey. When Lacey was lost and sad, she went to the "The Rabbit Hole". And that's where her feet brought her now, almost on their own volition.

The bar was comfortingly loud and smoky, as always. Drinks were placed in front of her instantly, smiles were friendly - she felt as if she never left. As if he never walked into this place with a stunned look on his lined face, and never asked her on a date in his polite, ceremonious way, and never seduced her by his ferocious darkness... that darkness that was so much a part of him; that darkness that she refused to accept any longer.

It was impossible to think of that. Not now. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

She needed a drink. And then another, and another.

One guy, among others who winked and smiled at her, seemed to have a deeper, more sympathetic look. She knew him - he was the perpetually drunken fellow who broke into the library once and tried to steal a copy of "Alice in Wonderland". Will Scarlet, they called him - she saw him in town later, with his sad doggy eyes and funny accent. He seemed a nice fellow, deep down below - or was she still seeing "goodness in others", as He said she did? Well, he said that even if goodness were not there, she would create it.

Not in him, apparently.

But this fellow still seemed nice enough.

So she accepted another drink.

Things got a bit blurry afterwards. She felt she has to leave, has to go somewhere, and Will went with her, stumbling along and muttering that he cannot leave a lady alone in time of need. She couldn't recall how they got there, but she knew that, coming to her senses in the middle of the night, she found herself in her husband's shop, in the back room, on the camp bed, alone, clutching her pillow and crying.

She knew then why she didn't cry before, just after he left - after she made him go. She was just too stunned yet. It was shock, and it passed with drink and brief passage of time, and the pain, the dull ache of his absence hit her and brought tears to her eyes.

What was she crying for, for goodness sake? She made a decision. It was her own. She made the bed, might as well sleep on it... Alone...

If only he'd stop calling to her, from that other world where she banished him, if only she'd stop feeling his love - that love that she denied ever existed! How can something non-existent call to her so strongly? _"It was working. That means it is true love!" _These were her own words. He didn't believe her then, but she was right, wasn't she?

Could it be that she was wrong now? Could it be that he did love her, after all, only she couldn't see it for all her anger and pain?

Eventually she cried herself back to sleep. And in the morning she woke up with a heavy head, but with a clearer brain, able to ignore - almost - the ache in her heart, the soft murmur of his voice, echoing in her ears with this constant "_I love you, Belle. You made me stronger"._

And she was distracted, anyway, for when she walked out of the back room, she found Will sleeping on the floor of the shop. As she woke him up he informed her, with a cheeky grin, that he had nowhere else to go and decided to stay and "mind things in the shop". That was some statement from the known thief, but she let it go - nothing was missing.

To repay for his courtesy of taking her home the night before she offered him breakfast. He eagerly accepted.

Next day, he appeared in front of the shop saying that now he has to offer _her_ breakfast - for the day before. She smiled and said "ok".

And so it went on, day after day, so that they became a fixture at Granny's. When they came together, people stared at them, unable to understand how she could be romancing someone so soon after... What happened. But nobody dared to ask awkward questions: it is somehow harder to approach a couple than a single person.

People took them for granted, and she didn't care to explain what really went on, and was glad of the silence surrounding her.

There wasn't a lot of people to break that silence, anyway - it was not as if she had many sympathetic friends in town.

Will was good company. He made her smile a lot, with his funny voice and his amusing stories. And when occasionally he approached her for a kiss, especially after a couple of drinks, she would not deny him small tokens of affection. She had to go on living, hand' she? She had to move on.

She had to move on, because He, apparently, did so.

She knew he moved on, because she seized feeling his love - his inner calling for her stopped, abruptly. One day, quite soon after he left, actually, she was jolted by complete silence in her heart. He stopped pulling at her - stopped so suddenly and fully as if it was his life that ended, not simply his love. There was a void where he used to be, emptiness in place of a man she loved. His heart was silent. And she knew it was all over.

She did not cry - she couldn't, she was too stunned. It was too painful and too shameful to cry over the proof that you were right all along.

He was able to move on. He really didn't love her.

Oh, his call did come back, eventually, much later, much weaker - like a flicker of something remembered, not a real thing.

So she knew: he remembers her with affection. He holds no grudge against her - that was generous of him, though unexpected, she would have thought he'd feel vengeful yet he remembered her kindly.

But he has moved on.

And she did her best to follow suite. Dating Will. Keeping things in order in the shop. Helping Hook to figure out how to save the fairies from the magical hat. She was not in denial, oh no - she knew it is important to talk of her feelings, so she talked to the pirate of the nature of love and how it blinds us. Perhaps she overdid the "strong and right" part a bit; the practical girl took over too strongly, protested too much, for she was shocked to hear the pirate defend Him - tell her that whatever he was, he certainly truly loved her. Her eyes filled with tears, but she never explained to him why she was so sure he's wrong. It would not do to tell him: "I don't feel him in my heart anymore". Too soppy. Too romantic.

Moving on is not a very romantic thing. It requires coldness and determination. It requires stopping herself from silly memories. From thinking, "he'd do this and that if he was here now", from thinking "he'd translate this spell in a minute", forgetting momentarily that the spell was necessary because of his crimes. Stopping herself from thinking, again and again: "Perhaps I should have let him talk. Explain himself..." She had to know why he was so determined to free himself from the dagger, and her curiosity was never satisfied. Perhaps he had some other reasons apart from his love of power. After all, she once promised herself she'd accept his right to keep secrets... That she'd accept him as he was. Yet she pushed him away the moment when she saw that he is just... Not what she wished him to be. Perhaps she should have listened... Ah, that was exactly the sort of thinking that had to be avoided once you were moving on! So she was avoiding, checking herself whenever the wistful thinking started. Stopping herself from angry outbursts and crying, from thinking "I was sure he'd try and come back somehow - I was sure he'd try and reach me, at least!" He had her number, after all. He could have called. Perhaps he thought she wouldn't listen... Perhaps he was right.

What is the point of talking if things are over?

When the new evil witches came to town and Cruella congratulated her on her "victory" over the Dark One and told her how miserable he was out there in the real world, she cried for the rest of the day. Not just over the bitter words and feelings - not just over her guilt and out of compassion for him. She cried over the memory of the day when she first saw those witches, and he saved her from them. She was so happy then. He looked at her so... tenderly and his teasing was so... toothless and his anger so... insincere. She felt his love, as yet unspoken, so strongly - that was when the feeling, that aching and sorely missed feeling of his pull on her, manifested itself for the first time.

Perhaps it was because of that memory that she felt unsettled and weird for the rest of the day. She seemed to feel him stronger, somehow. She could have sworn that he was somewhere around - somewhere near her. So when the pirate came to her with the idea of hiding the dagger more safely, she was eager to help. She wanted to hold the dagger again - wanted to use it again. She had to check whenever her feelings where telling her the truth.

They weren't. When she held the dagger in front of her and commanded the Dark One to face her at once, the only fellow who faced her was Hook - with a rueful smile on his dashing face, as if ready to say: "Sorry to disappoint, luv".

She drove back to the shop, hazy with grief and disappointment. She was so sure. She really felt him... Oh, what a silly, silly girl she was still, despite all her efforts to be strong.

Will wasn't around, but he left a red rose as a present for her - that was nice, though not very much like him. He rarely gave her anything apart from jokes and a sense of normality. The only person who ever gave her a red rose before was her husband. Whom she called a beast and whom she purged out of town, condemning him for life of grief and misery.

That day when he gave her that rose - she remembered it so vividly. He was in a good mood, her lizard-wizard, he was eager to talk. He asked her what she thinks of love, and she was too shy and too unsure of herself to voice what she felt - to say that, when she thinks of love, she thinks of him. What if she told him then? Would it have changed anything? Would they have been able to find a way to be together if they talked, really honestly talked to each other, instead of just loving blindly and tragically?

And what does it matter now, when things are over?

Hook came later to tell her he hid the dagger successfully, and to make her swear secrecy. She felt very funny, again, as they talked and as he touched her at the moment when they were giving their promises, and placed her hand on his heart. He seemed... Strange, solemn and sad, though he had no apparent reason to be so. He asked her about her new "romance", and she brushed him away - there was no reason to come into details. He was probably seeking reassurance: he was a man who lost his true love, and found another - with a woman who has also lost her true love. He wanted to hear about second chances, most probably. But she couldn't help him here. There was no question of true love between her and Will; no question of love at all, really.

Her true love was lost.

He moved on.

And, saying to Hook, "I will probably never be over him", she voiced it for the first time, for herself as well as for her chance listener.

She is not over him. She cannot move on. Not yet. May be not ever.

She made her choice, and it seemed to be the right one. But making a right choice doesn't mean finding peace.

She remembered His face, as she told him, many years ago, when he was making _his_ right choice, a choice she couldn't understand and took for cowardice: "All you'll have is an empty heart and a chipped cup". She knew she'd see the same expression on her face if she looked into the mirror now.

She seemed to hear his voice now, saying to her those same words.

She went to his secret cupboard, and took the chipped cup out, and sat at his table for many hours, just holding it.

Knowing she'd never stop loving him.

Wishing he'd love her in return.

Exactly as she always did.

And then the next day, everything in her life changed. Upon the new crisis in town people came running to the shop, telling her they needed the dagger, and Hook's stunned face and ugly angry words let her and everyone else know that the man who took the dagger from her yesternight wasn't him.

It was her husband.

He came back for her. He found a way.

He did not move on.

He heard her say that she is not over him.

He left her the red rose... Of course it was him, who else?!

She realized she must look strange to them, for she appeared completely nonplussed by this great news. But she didn't care what they thought, these good people who weren't really her friends, who never really cared for him or for her and forgot all that he did for them so easily, and gloated openly when she joined them with her act of banishing him. It took her some effort to appear calm - to look like someone who doesn't care for the evil beast, too and can easily listen to treats to his person. It took her effort to hide irrational relief - deep, inner sense of justice when she realized that his dagger is with him now and this stupid false "power" over him is over: there is no temptation to use the damned thing any more. It took her effort to hide her inner glow, her instinctive admiration for him - his power, his cunning, his wits that brought him back here despite everything. She managed to mumble something pitiful about "believing he'd never deceive her again", and being wrong... She was honest then: he showed her, yet again, that he'd never lose his ability to surprise her.

But she wasn't sorry he tricked her. She was _proud_ of him, even if she'd never admit it.

She thought him lost, yet he came back to her.

That had to mean something, hadn't it?

Yet he never approached her directly. Why not? Surely not because of her new suitor, such things never stopped him before - she remembered what he did to the fellow who dared to kiss Lacey once, all too vividly.

Something else was on his mind.

Something sat heavily upon his heart - so heavily that he didn't call to her, didn't let her feel his love. That felt akin to the time when he was kept prisoner by the wicked witch, and tried to distance himself from her, for her safety...

Something must be wrong, very wrong with him now if he is acting like that. And however eager she is to find out, to confront him, to talk out things that they should have talked out before, she'd keep her distance too, for now.

He is the Dark One, her husband, and she made him very angry, and she hurt him - as much as he hurt her.

Yet he came back to her, and she'd have to give him time to approach her in the way he chooses.

She owes him that much, or that little for the time when she wouldn't listen to him when he tried to talk to her. She owes him that much for kissing another man; owes him that much for letting go of hope and abandoning him in the middle of an empty road.

She owes him some patience for all the times when she rushed things without giving him any chance to explain himself.

She owes him the benefit of doubt.

She owes him some hope.

She is the wife of the Dark One still, and it's time she remembered that.


	48. Chapter 48

48

They always talk of hope - the good ones, the heroes. They always say how you mustn't lose hope, how losing hope is the first step on the way to darkness. How surprised would they be if they'd stop and think and realize that he, the Dark One, the darkest villain in their world, is actually the most hopeful person they know. He always, always hoped - that he'd find his boy, that he'd save his life, that he and Belle would keep their love, that happiness is possible, that freedom is not a dream, but something tangible. He always hoped, painfully and oh, so strongly.

And fate always, always brought him down, denying him everything he hoped for.

And it never stopped him: he would pick himself up after another blow, and lick his wounds, and go on hoping. Only to be brought down again - and to rise again. Wondering, deep there in his heart, whenever his strength would fail him, eventually - whenever a day would come when he wouldn't be able to stand up again and will remain on the ground, bleeding and weeping.

That day in New York, stripped to the hospital bed, helpless and sick and humiliated and looking in the sneering face of the wicked witch he hated more than any other being on earth, he thought that the day had come.

He should have known, as he walked away from Storybrook through the night, having forgiven his unhappy and cruel wife, longing for her already, planning his return and quietly confident in their happy ending, that things wouldn't be easy. When were they easy for him? He expected troubles, he knew he'd have to scheme and be cunning. Yet fate, his constant adversary, had in store for him something he didn't expect - as always, otherwise what's the fun of playing with him?

The first shock came when he entered his son's apartment in New York and found it taken - found a not-too-happy family of Regina's boyfriend settling there, and learned that Regina gave it to them. That had him taken aback, irritated and dumbfounded. What right had she to give away things and properties that had nothing to do with her whatsoever? She was the mayor of Storybrook, not the ruler of the world! That apartment belonged to Bae and his family, namely his father, for his lover was already in the arms - arm - of another man. How could she settle her lover there? And how come that Robin Hood, the honest thief, "the man with a code", didn't notice the vulgar senseless injustice of her gesture?

Yet he couldn't even begin arguing his completely justified objections when he was struck down by fate yet again. He had another cruel awakening - a reminder of his humanity and frailty. His heart failed him and, coming to his senses in a hospital, he realized he now has to face his gravest danger - his mortal peril. And he had to start a race against time itself.

His body was hundreds years old. Without magic, it couldn't survive for long. That was one thing, and he was always aware of that, but there was also something else now - something worse. His body was not really his own anymore - it was the product of dark magic, the unholy substance created out of darkness in the vault in the forest when his son sacrificed himself to bring him back from the dead. When he emerged from that vault, he was darkness itself - truly and wholly the Dark One, fearsome and omnipotent. And then he heard Belle's voice, and saw the look in her eyes, and love came back to his heart, and sparkled a light in his soul. He kept this light glowing when he held his dying son inside his body, using his humanity to bread humanity in himself. He kept this light glowing with his love for Belle, and this love sustained him and his light through darkest days of captivity when the witch held him in her power.

But then his son was separated from him and died in his arms, and the pain of that almost extinguished the light in his heart. Only Belle's love remained. And, wishing to protect it, he started doing bad things - things brought on by fear and grief. He lied. He kept secrets from her. He distrusted her and felt anger and pain at her eagerness to control him with the dagger. And all these things, combined, shadowed the light of love in his heart more and more.

And then he lost her - she cast him out of her life, and the pain of _that_ struck another blow on his heart.

And the only source of light that was left in him was his own love, and his own hope. That was all armor he had in his fight with time and darkness that wanted to claim him back. And a lonely old man in a strange town, cast on the street by the whim of his former pupil, cannot fight time and darkness on his own. Not for long.

Of course he told Robin Hood a different story - he told him that his dark deeds blackened his heart; what was the point of getting into fine details about lost hopes and loves? What was the point of humiliating himself further? Robin was a hero, and heroes don't understand that being dark is not just about doing evil things; darkness doesn't enter human hearts with wicked intent and even cruelty. Much more often - nearly always, in fact - it enters human hearts with broken hopes, lost loves and despair; that's how he let it into his heart hundreds of years ago, when he wanted to save his son. That's how it came to possess his heart almost completely now, when he lost his son and lost the love of his wife.

No, it was much easier to blame everything on evil deeds. Simple enough to fit any hero's prejudices. Robin despised him, pitied him, and helped him - tricked, just like any hero, blind in his goodness. That actually felt good - it was nice to know that he doesn't need magic to exercise power, that he can manipulate people by his wits just as easily.

And then the trickster found himself tricked. The magic potion that Robin stole for him didn't work, for it was a fake - the real stuff was in possession of the wicked soul. The wicked witch that tortured him, was obsessed with him and killed his son; the wicked witch whom he wanted to kill - wanted it so much that to achieve that he lied to his wife and stepped onto the pat that led to destruction of his marriage... That wicked witch stood before him now, laughing in his face, telling him that he never killed her, that he gave her freedom to roam the world, murder an innocent woman, and come back into his life to haunt him.

The sight of her face, the sound of her voice, the very smell of her in the same room made him shudder. And as his vision swam and his breathing went shallow, and cold sweat covered his body as his heart beat violently and then stopped with a painful jerk, he felt grateful to death - it was merciful of him to come so quickly. He couldn't live now, not any longer. Not in the world where such things, such cruel jokes of fate were possible.

It was his destiny to die here, in this strange city, he should have known that. His son saved him once, when the pirate attacked him - his son saved him and took him to Belle, and he was able to say his good-byes. Pity that he will not see her this time - not even hear her voice... But she will understand. When they will tell her what happened, she'll understand. She will know he would have come back to her if he could.

They will tell her, these heroes?.. Surely they will tell her.

Zelena's sneering voice receded, her face blurred but still she was here, too close to him, and he couldn't bear it. His brain was shutting down, but still he tried to imagine Belle - her tearful face, her small polite voice... _"Sweetheart, I am dying"... "Oh, I am so sorry"_.

She will be sorry. Of course she will be.

It was working.

It was true love.

Dying is painful!..

Darkness enveloped him like a warm blanket, shielding him from pain, embracing him. Darkness is not only evil and pain and bleakness. It is a soft murmur of the night sheltering lovers. It is calm. It is bliss of oblivion. Darkness is silence and peace.

For once in his life, darkness was his friend. But he did not know it or feel it.

He was dead, and in the world without magic death is a final, senseless thing.

But not his death, apparently. His death was not final - he was brought back to life, yet again. Not with a sacrifice of blood this time - not at the cost of someone he loved, thankfully. Medical machines and electric shock are the magic of this world. They brought him back.

They brought him back to the gleeful, mad smile of his torturer.

And that was when, stripped to the bed, dressed in ridiculous hospital gown, faint and barely breathing, listening to her gloating, feeling her hungry lips on his face, shuddering from the warm poison of her breath and squirming from the weight of her body on his as she climbed on the bed to torture him with her sick caress, that he thought: "I cannot go on".

He would not rise again. His final blow came. There was no strength in him to go on living and hoping. Not like that. That day - the day when he lost hope - had come.

But then, looking right into her gleaming green eyes, feeling her fingers crawl upon his skin like insects he felt it again - rage. Deep, terrible anger that sustained him when everything else was lost. If there is no hope for good things, there is always hope of revenge, it told him. No point in giving up if you can still avenge yourself.

No point in dying if you can live and see your enemies suffer.

So he made a deal with her. Promised her life and security in return for the magic potion that he needed to survive - that he needed to be physically able to return to his wife and to fight for their happiness.

She thought it was her victory, silly evil soul. She didn't realize what he, having died twice, knew for certainty: death is not to be feared - death is a blessing. Living is torture; she wants him to spare her life? Fine. She'll turn this life into hell, all on her own, even without his assistance.

And meanwhile, he can use her. For the potion now, and as leverage on Regina later. She deserved some pestering from her evil sister too, Regina, for that number she did on him with giving his son's apartment to her lover.

He left the hospital, promising his doctors he'll take care of himself, exercise, leave a peaceful healthy life. He was very collected and sober. He had much to do, and he knew he really should take good care of himself.

His every heartbeat now cost him a year of life. His every action would have to be measured from now on; his every thought controlled. That flicker of light and love he has in him still - he'd have to be very gentle with it. He'd have to be very calm. No fear, no anger, no rages - every dark emotion he might feel would draw on this light, dimming it.

No futile hopes, too. No wistful thinking. No longing for love.

He'd have to shut his heart down now, to forcefully make it indifferent to everything - he'd have to collect all the light he has for the moment, the final and crucial moment when he'd see Her again, and the light in her eyes would rekindle the light in his heart.

The rest was comparatively easy. Dealing with Robin Hood told him that his pitiful state, his new humiliating role of the powerless wizard cast out into the harsh world, is an advantage. People stopped fearing him - they felt superior and proud and could be manipulated with ease. The Sea Witch was his willing prey - she wanted a happy ending desperately, she was just a silly and kind girl lost in her ways. Cruella was trickier, her reasons for helping darker, but he knew she'd help, just for the sheer pleasure of witnessing his broken state and sneering at him. Tricking Belle with the help of the fake "professor" who translated the spell over e-mail for her was very, very pleasant: it was so nice to read her pleading request, and to answer it politely, and to receive her grateful answer... It was almost as good as talking to her - as he read her words he could see her concentrated eager face, see her biting her lower lip and smiling.

Playing out the comically tragical scene at the town line, letting his helpful witches see just how much he needed them and just how helpless without them he was, was almost fun. Almost, for he couldn't be completely certain they believe him; and he _did_ depend on them...

He lived through several unpleasant moments when he thought they might abandon him beyond the line after all.

Humanity is cruel and frail when you are alone in the dark, and every second of your life could be your last.

Leaving this humanity beyond the town line, walking back into his realm felt... glorious. The moment he crossed the line, discarding his faithful cane in one swift gesture, his stance changed, his bearing changed, for he felt his power surging through his veins, and her presence electrifying his blood.

His hopes were justified, for once. His planning bore its' first fruits. Things were changing for the better.

All he had to do now was to see Belle and try to talk to her. Explain himself, finally - if she'd let him. He had to tell her what was happening - what he was planning and why. He owed it to her. He owed it to himself...

He could almost feel his heart getting lighter as he walked to his shop, knowing that she is inside - feeling her presence as he always felt it. Hope and love swelled in his chest, making him stronger.

And then he saw her - smiling, happy, bright and sweet, as she always was.

Kissing another man.

A dark blade fell on his heart, slicing off a great part of it, nearly breaking it. Anger. Confusion. And pain - pain most of all, pain acute and devastating. She betrayed him. She forgot him. She moved on - so soon, so easily... How could she? He did cast her off, many years ago, when he had too - he understood her need to cast him off now. But never, ever, in all the years he spent without her had he kissed another lips - had he even _thought_ of any other woman but her.

How could she do that to him?..

He stood in the dark shadow across the street from his shop, raked with pain emotional and physical, unable to take his eyes off the window were she smiled brightly into the eyes of another man. The kiss was thankfully brief, they just chatted now. But she looked so happy. So relaxed. She looked almost as light and cheerful as she looked in his castle when they first loved each other - all the sadness that being with him brought into her life seemed gone. She was the girl he fell in love with, young and free again, for he wasn't casting a shadow on her life.

And thus, standing in his own shadow on an empty dark street, feeling a piece of his heart dying at her betrayal, he suddenly thought: this is what he always wanted for her. To be happy. To smile and to laugh. To be free. He always knew he was not good enough for her - she insisted on hoping, but he knew he could only ruin her, and he almost did. He let her go - many times, and she always came back, and he never knew why.

This time, she was not coming back.

And it must be for the better.

As long as she is happy, everything is for the better.

He told his son once: "I wanted you to be happy. And that happiness is possible - just not with me. I accept that". He was talking to his son, but he was also talking to her. And he meant it - every word. And, remembering the light that came into his heart as he said those words to them, just before dying to save them, he felt a fraction of that light enter his heart again.

And the piece of his heart that died when he saw her kiss another flickered back to life.

And he saw, clearly and coldly as in the harsh light of the winter sun, what he has to do now. He cannot approach her, cannot ask for her help or her forgiveness, cannot trouble her with his troubles - with his presence. His only hope of survival is her happiness, and her happiness is possible... Just not with him.

He accepted that.

He turned and walked away from her on shaking legs. He wanted to come back - wanted it more than anything in the world. But that would have been bad for her; and what is bad for her would kill him.

So he was very careful when he approached her - he had to do it, for he needed his dagger. Disguising himself as the pirate he easily convinced her to help, but getting his dagger back, though very important and essential to his plans, was nothing compared to the pleasure of walking beside her again, and sitting next to her in the car, scenting her hair and sensing the warmth of her skin.

And when she took the dagger out of its hiding-place and commanded the Dark One to face her, and he turned his head obediently, what a pleasure it was to hear her call - to feel her power - to do her bidding!

He couldn't resist coming back to her after that - he was human after all, he simply had to look into her eyes again. He was pleased to see that she liked his rose. He was happy to see her smile. And when he asked her if she forgot him, if she loved this new young man of hers, he really, really wanted her to say yes. He wanted her to set his mind and his heart at ease.

But a look of uncertainty and sadness entered her eyes at his question. She insisted she was happy enough, but he could see she was not telling the truth.

He knew her so well.

"I suppose I will never be over him", she said. And _that_ was the truth.

And he saw her longing, and he felt her love, and he knew that his pat to goodness would not be easy. It would have been easy to let her go, as he knew he should.

But that was not what she wanted or needed. As always, she wanted him to come back for her - changed, repentant, reformed... And alive.

And as her soft hand touched his heart, hidden in the pirate's chest, and a searing pain pierced it at the memory of all the sweetness and warmth he lost, he realized that he had to act fast and do all he can, for with suffering so much and loving her so much he might just fail her.

He had to fight his battles and do his tricks and bring hope and faith back into her life. But soon there will be no time for that - no time for anything at all.

And still he had to hope. For himself, and for her.


	49. Chapter 49

49

The next few days were very strange for her. There was outward calm - a lot of things were happening in town, but none of them seemed to concern her immediately: having lost her position of the only person able to influence the Dark One, she lost her importance to the good ones as well. She didn't have his dagger, and she didn't have his trust - what use was she to them? They rushed into the shop sometimes to ask for this potion or that book, but generally they kept her out of things.

So there was outward calm and loneliness, shared by Will, whom nobody trusted and nobody needed as well, and they went on "dating" and she personally felt like a fool, knowing that He must be watching her with raised eyebrows, and therefore she acted with even more forced cheerfulness then before.

But inside she was beside herself with worry. She wondered what was happening to him. She wondered at his silence - at his complete unwillingness to contact her physically or magically. She wondered if everything between him and those three new witches was just as the heroes saw it. The heroes thought that he was the main villain, the mastermind of the operation of finding the author of the magical book and making him write happy endings for all villains and unhappy ones for heroes, and those witches were his obedient puppets. But what if they were wrong? What if he was in their power, as once before with Zelena, and couldn't act on his own free will? But what power could they have had over him to make him do his bidding? They didn't have his dagger - it was in his hands, and she was sure he'd never let go of it now. What else could be equally important to him? The answer, if she remembered her previous encounter with the witches, was simple - herself. He could make great sacrifices to protect her in the past. And something told her that hadn't changed, despite everything that happened between them: if she were in danger, he would do anything to save her.

Somehow, somewhere during these long weeks of his absence and these brief days after his return she lost her gloomy conviction that he doesn't love her. It simply disappeared, and she just knew that, whatever he is doing and planning, he loves her. That didn't make him a good person, or alleviate his guilt... But it was a start from which things could be built back to normal. As always, it was a start.

But he was not coming to see her, and he was not calling to her, and she was worried sick with not knowing what to do and even what to think. Personal danger didn't concern her at all - he was in town, and that meant she had nothing to fear. But what should she do? Should she call him? Approach him? Leave him alone? What if he comes to harm? What if he does anything stupidly evil, and harm others, and sets everyone against himself even more that ever? Ah, she missed him so much, and she was bursting with the need to _talk_ to him - to set things clear! And she knew he needed her, however stubbornly he denied it and tried to act on his own.

She thought of him constantly and fretted and observed everyone who came into the shop closely in case he comes disguised again, and she thought she saw him across the street, but of course she was wrong, he wouldn't come openly.

She became so obsessed with him that she even had a dream - a strangest dream. It happened when the whole town was put to sleep by one of the witches, but she didn't know that until later - what she felt right then was sudden drowsiness that made her fall on the floor right were she stood in the middle of the shop. And she dreamt that while she lay there he came into the shop, and carried her in his arms to their camp-bed, and it felt so sweet and so bitter to be embraced by him again, she missed him so much - his warmth and his smell and the touch of his skin on hers. And he put her on the bed, and sat by her side, holding her hand and kissing it, and talking - softly and tenderly, telling her he loved her, and was sorry for many, many things, and promising to explain everything but, as it often happens in dreams, telling her nothing.

She woke in tears - that dream was so real, things between them were exactly as they used to be, it felt so right, and she even pressed her hand, the one he was kissing in a dream, to her cheek, and could have sworn she felt his touch, the gentle way he'd brush her skin with his fingertips. And she hoped that it wasn't entirely imagined, this dream of hers; it could have been his way of reaching her, showing her he was thinking of her always.

How could a person entirely evil, a beast with no goodness in his soul, exclude such tenderness towards her? How could a man who thought only of his power care for her so much, and forgive her so easily for what she did to him? How could she have been so blind as not to see his love - his weird, peculiar, but undeniably true love for her?

She still believed that she did the right thing when she made him leave town - everyone said so, and they were probably right. The part where she did it to stop him harming people was justified... The part where she did it out of hurt pride and imagined rejection was wrong. She should have done it differently. She should have listened to him...

She should have gone with him. As simple as that. If she thought that magic was her main rival in his heart, she should have gone with him into the world without magic, and set things straight between them. That's what she should and would have done, if she were thinking of him - of them... But she was thinking only of herself and her bruised feelings.

She acted rashly. She always told him there was a way to set everything right, but she didn't stop and look for one herself.

She called him a beast.

Just as when she lost her memory in the past, she threw away their chipped cup without even trying to mend it. Threw it away too soon, at the first sight of real trouble... She broke their marriage vows as much as he did. And they needed to set it right.

She wanted to see him - she wanted it very much. And, just as she was setting her mind on finding a way to do it, Regina came into the shop, told her that he did something evil again and asked for her help to set things right. She was glad that somebody finally remembered that her help was essential when they needed to communicate with him. She said yes, of course, without adding that she wished to see him herself, and said she just didn't know how. And Regina told her of a way: she should go the place of their wedding, to the wishing-well in the forest, and simply call him through the well. This well is magical - it returns things one had lost. It would return her husband.

As Regina spoke and smiled darkly at her, in that gypsy way that she sometimes had, a memory stirred in Belle's mind - distant memory of meeting Evil Queen on the forest road, and listening to her advice regarding her master and her lover, and rushing back to his castle to ruin everything that was brimming between them with the kiss of true love meant to break his curse - a curse he couldn't allow to be broken just yet. She felt spellbound then, knowing she shouldn't listen to this woman, yet obeying her every word. She felt the same now, and it troubled her deeply. But she told herself to calm down. Regina was evil then - she was a villain. She is a hero now. Surely she wouldn't give her poisoned advice.

She just needed her help.

So she went to the well, and stood there shivering in the chilly grey day, calling his name, hearing the echo of her voice and seeing the reflection of her confused face in the dark water. She felt silly. How could he hear her this way? Surely he wouldn't come.

Yet he appeared by her side in one instant, and everything felt like a dream, again. He was gentle, and soft, and looked at her with eyes full of love. She asked him to tell her the truth, and he did - he explained everything. He showed her his heart - he literally held it out for her in his hand, and she saw how dark and ill his poor heart was, and she saw the flicker of light - their love - in the center of it. And she knew she was wrong to doubt him, and was right to believe in him, and she knew that they'd find a way - true love always finds a way, and their love was true, she saw it with her own eyes... She _saw_ the light of their love, really, really saw it!

And then, finally, she walked into his arms, and felt him crush her to him, and knew how much he missed her, and knew she missed him just as much - perhaps even more. And his lips were so soft and so powerful as he kissed her, and his tears were so salty and warm, and she felt his poor heart beat faster against her own, and she knew she is home at last - in his arms, for better or worse, and she was bitterly happy.

And then she woke up.

She was alone in the shop, on her camp-bed. She was very cold, and somehow uneasy. It was strange of her to fall asleep like that, and her head was heavy, for she was sure she dreamt as she slept, but she couldn't remember a single thing from her dream. And her lips were swollen, as if she kissed someone - but how could she kiss anyone in a dream?

She shook her head, trying to get rid of the uneasy feeling, and went to check the books.

That day left a lingering sense of unease behind it, but strangely things felt much better after that. She calmed down, and stopped worrying about him. Finally, she was able to mentally put some distance between them. He was in town, yes, but he was minding his business, and it didn't concern her as long as he did nothing awful to people. The moment he'd start something dangerous, she'd make sure to stop him. That was her duty, not moping around full of silly regrets.

And she felt no pang of guilt at dating Will, not any more. After all, she had a right to some fun of her own while He was parading the town with three dashing witches!.. The only problem was that Will had lost a lot of his appeal as well, somehow. His jokes weren't so funny, and his eyes looked soppy, and in no way would she allow him to kiss her now - she had no time for sweet nothings and silly quips.

Yet nevertheless he hung around, and one evening she stayed late in the shop for they agreed to meet there and go and have a cup of coffee. But when she heard the doorbell and lifted her eyes, smiling, instead of Will she saw her husband. And felt instant anger, fueled by all past hurt and slights. He certainly had some cheek, to come here just like that, to walk through the door as if nothing happened - as if he hadn't tricked her again, as if he ever apologized! Did he think she'd fall right into his arms the moment he showed up?..

She voiced some of her anger and irritation, but he managed to stop her - with a gentle, soothing wave of his hand, with his pleading and sad look. He said his business was brief - he knew it is useless to ask forgiveness (and right he was!). He mentioned his heart - she seemed to remember Regina explaining that he feared he'd lose his ability to love, lose it to darkness, which possessed his heart almost completely, because of his crimes, and she remembered snorting at that, inwardly: as if he had anything to lose!.. He said that, to have a chance of salvation, he must do only right by her - to do only what's best for her.

She eyed him with suspicion: "Is that some attempt to win me back?!"

He shook his head.

He didn't come to win her back - he came to give her back something she lost.

Her heart.

Will - Will was helping him? - came into the shop carrying a box, the sort of box in which Regina kept hearts she took from people and used to make them do her bidding - and crushed them once she didn't need these people anymore. And her husband opened the box, and horrified she saw inside a gleaming thing - a heart, her heart, taken out of her chest by... The Evil Queen.

And she didn't even know it. She didn't notice its' absence. God knows what she did or said while it was missing from her chest!..

Her husband held her heart in his hand and smiled gently, as if asking her permission to return it to her.

She nodded, dazed, and felt the pressure of his familiar, darling fingers as he pushed her heart back into place.

How many times did she live through this feeling of waking up - remembering herself, her true nature, her true love? Too many... She woke up once to look at his tenderly crumpled face by the wishing-well, when the first curse broke. "I remember, and I love you!.." She woke up once here, in this shop, drunk and ashamed of herself after believing herself to be a different girl - woke up to see his ashen face, to kiss his tears at the loss of his son. She woke up now to see his face unnaturally calm and quiet, and to hear his voice say evenly that now, once her heart is in place, he would leave her, for he is not worthy to be by her side and protect her heart.

He was letting her go, as he tried to many times before, and she always felt his attempts as cruel rejections, but this time was different. This time there was a finality of true sacrifice - there was nothing in it for him, no other interests or tasks or quests, he was thinking only of her happiness.

He believed her when she said she doesn't love him any longer.

And he literally gave her heart back to her.

He set her free.

It was the most selfless thing she ever saw. The most painful of sacrifices - letting go of your loved one. To ensure her happiness, to be certain she'd have only good things in her life he left her in peace... He relinquished his claim on her, that claim forged with so many spells and promises, for he believed she is better off without him.

What great, what unimaginably powerful love would prompt a man to do such a thing?

What blindness, what incredible blindness would prevent him understanding that it is completely useless to set free a woman to whom you'd just proved that you love her beyond anything in the world?..

Just once did she feel the same - when he died in front of her, setting her free in the most final of ways. And even then she didn't accept her freedom - because she didn't want it or need it. She fought to return him from the dead, and brought uncountable troubles on their heads in the process, but she felt then as she felt now that it was all worth it - that no freedom of loneliness could be better than self-imposed imprisonment of love.

The moment her heart settled in her chest, it all came back. Her regrets, her worries, her tenderness; she remembered her "dream" in the forest, she remembered his broken heart held out to her in his open palm; she remembered their kiss, and their tears, and peace she found in his embrace. She remembered her pride in him and her frustration with him, she remembered the light and the darkness and the need to mend the cup they both chipped. She remembered her duty and her love and, as she watched his back when he walked out of the shop, she remembered she once told him she'd go with him, forever.

And her fingers slipped out of the hand of the young man who was holding her hand hopefully, and her eyes were fixed on the spot were her master and lover disappeared.

And her heart, just returned to her, reached out - to follow him, wherever he went.


	50. Chapter 50

50

How maddening it was to realize that, for once in his life, everything he wanted or needed was within his grasp, and could be reached without magic - yet his own body, humanly frail and magically dangerous, hindered him and forced him to take actions he would have rather avoided.

His wife loved him - he could not doubt it any more. The moment he gave her heart back to her, and left her with her new suitor, honestly trying to give her space to build a good life without him, a wave of her affection reached him, pulled at him with all its' former force, called to his heart, drawing out almost all its' failing strength. And he knew that her love would come with all its' wonderful and maddening qualities - hopefulness and stubbornness, striving to make him better and inability to let him go. When he had to reject her, when he had to leave her, even when he died - in the past she'd always refuse to believe that everything was over, and he was grateful to her for her undying faith and he was exasperated with her youthful blindness and he was deadly tired and moved to tears. She loved him, and she would never let him go: she'd insist she'd see him again, and it filled his heart with hope and longing and despair, for at his age and with all the time he had on his shoulders he knew that some things just cannot be. And despite this knowledge he always succumbed to her hoping and the pull of their love, and he knew he'd succumb to them again now.

And he knew he could turn back this very instant, and take her in his arms, and kiss her, and let his tears flow into her hair, and her hair would smell of autumn forest, and her eyes would shine, and her lips would be warm and trembling, and they would rebuild everything that they lost.

But he couldn't do it.

There was no time for that.

There was hardly time for anything at all.

Events of the last days took their toll on him. He _felt_ too much - he suffered too much, raged and hoped too much. He barely had the strength to stand, let alone transport himself around town on his various and mostly futile errands. Yet when Belle called him through the wishing-well, he had to answer her call - and no words can describe the elation of their brief reunion and the pain of her unthinkable rejection and the rage that consumed him when he realized that the whole scene was orchestrated by Regina, and the fear he felt when he saw that his wife was in evil power, and the sadness that fell upon his soul when he realized that his former pupil, his adopted daughter could be so cruel to him. Events of this hour alone could have killed him, and he was mildly surprised that they didn't.

He wondered how ungrateful and ungenerous people could be - especially good people who counted themselves as heroes. Emma, the Savior, wanted to help everyone but him; what happened to her promise to save him, for he is her family? Did she forget that her son is his grandson as soon as she forgot she ever loved his father? The pirate, her new lover, so heroic and noble now - was it good, did it accord with his "code" to sneer at the old and sick man publicly - to glee in his imminent death? And Regina, her most of all people - she was so changed, a proper hero now... Was it really heroic to humiliate her old teacher, to abuse his feelings, to blackmail him with the death of his true love? Her own lover's heart was once crushed in front of her eyes, and she was ready to do the same thing to another human being. How can a person do that, and still think that she deserves a happy ending? But then, she was always selfish and also unnaturally edgy about his feeling to Belle - she always tried to ruin their love... He wondered why - wondered if perhaps there was a hint of jealousy in that. She and Zelena were sisters, after all, and Cora's daughters - they all had that possessive vein in them; that hint of "how could you care for anyone but me" attitude to him; that must have been running in the family.

Surely she realized that her precious Robin Hood was in no real danger - he was much more useful to everyone alive than dead. But she was blind to reason, and immune to pity and kindness. The moment she saw a chance, she turned to her former villainous self... The scene by the wishing-well was planned and executed by the Evil Queen in all her former glory, not by the "hero" she deemed herself to be now. How couldn't she see it?

How couldn't they all see how fine a line there was between being a hero and a villain?

He could have been a hero once. He _was_ a hero. He became a wizard to protect his son - to save all the children at the frontiers of the Ogre Wars. And he did save them!.. There was no selfishness in his actions then. All that he ever did was done to protect his loved ones. Yet he was a villain, and even dying for the sake of others - a sacrifice forgotten by everyone - didn't make him a hero in their eyes. He was always the Dark One - a man to be feared, mistrusted and haunted.

Even now, when he was dying again, they couldn't stop - they wouldn't leave him in peace. He felt their rage as he was settling in the back room of his shop, the only place were he felt safe, not because no one could enter it - goodness knows there were enough wizards and witches in this town to break any protective spell, but because it was the only place that felt like... home. It was full of magical things that kept him company when the town was cursed, and they consoled him in his partial madness as he kept remembering his old magical life in a world were there was no apparent magic. It was a place where he worked and planned and thought. It was a place where he was reunited with Her, and where he first knew her body and where their souls touched. It was a place where his son had first shown a sign that he forgave him and came into his embrace. It was a place where his father's cruelty pushed him to one truly heroic act of his life. It was a place where he loved and cried and smiled and held his wife in his arms, and these bittersweet memories surrounded him now as he sat and waited for his world to change - or for his death to come. Settling there in his happy and safe place he heard them, there in town, running around and screaming that they must stop the Dark One.

They wanted to stop the Dark One, but they had no idea what they were talking about. Even he had no clear idea what will happen if the author wouldn't be able to change his destiny and save his life. What will happen when his human body, that body that loved and suffered and fought and hoped, would die, and only his magically changed soul would remain? Would darkness that created him keep the same human shape, so as to trick and fool everyone who knew him? Would it roam the world in the shapeless form of some dark mist, swirling everywhere as it wishes? He rather thought it would want to keep the body - it wanted to have a body to start with, otherwise there wouldn't be a Dark One at all. What a strange thing it would be, to be physically the same, the frail old gentleman whom everybody knew so well, yet to have not a single human thought and feeling. But then, he wouldn't be aware of that strange state - he would be gone, and his curiosity with him. He - or rather the darkness - would be unstoppable then. Partly human, he could be controlled and killed by his dagger. Inhuman, he would be just a cruel, senseless force. Not something they'd want to meet, but would they stop and listen to him explain that? Never. They always know what is the best way, the heroes.

Oh he wished he were his former self - strong enough to oppose them, to manipulate them and bend them to his will... He would have made them see reason; they all wanted their happy endings, and there was a way to get them - if only they'd have stopped screaming, looked into their souls and admitted: nobody is a hero, and nobody is a villain. They don't live in a book, they write the story. All they needed - all of them - was time and space to write it the way it should be.

But he was not strong enough, and he didn't have time to write his own story. So, stumbling around his shop, leaning unto things, trembling all over and feeling how life seeps out of him with every passing second he had to trick Regina into finding magical ink for him - and suffer another bout of her sneering and end up gasping for breath on the floor, wondering yet again how cruel a hero could be: he _told_ her he was dying, and all she did was raise an eyebrow.

And he had to put his fate into the hands of the mediocre author, a petty small-time crook who had no kindness or wisdom, and no understanding of human nature, and whose ability to write anything properly was not to be trusted.

But he had no choice. His only chance to stay alive and to live through the love he knew to be possible in reality was to change reality - to be moved to an illusionary world where he never did a bad thing in his life and darkness had no claim on him.

Listening to the ticking of old clock, touching warm wood of the floor on which he sat as the ruffian wrote his book. It was a pity to leave all that behind - it was a nice world, and he loved many things in it. It was real, and held memories and hopes. She loved him here. His son was buried here. It was a good place to build a life, and it was interesting to be a wizard in a world that looked so ordinary, and he liked these stupid burgers and his dapper suits and the smell of salt in the air as he walked with his wife along the pier. It was a pity to part with all that.

But there was no choice.

Closing his eyes and picturing Her face and her smile, he was building into the magic of the new book one main, essential thing - their love for each other. Let this young man write anything else the way he wants, let him change things the way his limited imagination would allow. The only thing that mattered was to be alive, and to be with her - in any shape or form, on any conditions, whatever the price.

Falling into the light of the curse that the author enacted when his new magical book was finished felt like dying there, on the Main Street of this town, embracing his father, detached from himself and thinking of his loved ones.

Perhaps he was dying - the pain of the transition was quite fierce.

Perhaps it would have been a good thing to die now, harming nobody, knowing nothing, disappearing between the pages of a book, dissolved into the fragments of light and shadow, into dark letters on white paper, turned into a story written a long time ago and read by Her with interest and compassion, and then forgotten as all childhood fairy tales are forgotten.

It would have been nice to go like this.

He was so tired.

But he could not leave Her.

She loved him.

She wanted to be with him.

He had to stay alive.

He had no choice.

He closed his eyes, wishing for just one thing - to see her face when he opens them again.

_It was Her._

_There, in the middle of the dimly lit and crowded room, She stood out, even though in reality she was standing in the background. In the sea of anxious faces, turned towards him in reaction to his greeting, Her face shone, making everything else fade out and blur._

_It was Her. The One. The girl he never hoped to find, though somehow always knew he would. Or the other way round. The girl for whom he always waited and for whom he searched eagerly, forever telling himself that she doesn't exist anywhere but in his imagination, and even if she did exist, she wouldn't be destined for him. He waited for her as ordinary people wait for miracles, and the feeling was bitter for him: even the most powerful wizard cannot create a miracle for himself; yet he waited still, with elation of expectation and disappointments of failure._

_Yet today, there was no elation, no expectation of anything. He came here, to this little kingdom, out of boredom. Their request was so small, so easily answered there was actually no need for him to come at all. Defeating the ogres for him is routine; he could have done it without leaving his chair. Yet he was bored, and he was amused by this king's offer of a reward of gold - didn't he know that good deeds come with no price, they are their own rewards? And he felt it was polite to show his face when he was obliging people._

_He certainly didn't come here looking for love._

_Yet he came into the room, and he uttered his first words, and they turned to him, startled, and there She was, standing amongst them, solemn and silent, looking at him with those incredible eyes. Not scared of the Ogres or intimidated by the presence of a wizard like the rest of them; no, she looked expectant and curios and somehow a little exited as if she, too, was waiting for him._

_The girl whose face, whose magically blue eyes promised him one thing that he, a man who spent his life helping others, never deemed possible for himself: happiness._


	51. Chapter 51

_51._

_Her family often teased her for being a dreamer. They were warriors, all of them, and rarely stopped to think before swinging a sword. They were coarse and direct, their laughter was loud and their steps heavy. She always looked odd amongst them __– __too small, too quiet, and too beautiful. Of course they doted on her __– __she was their lovely little princess, yet she did feel sometimes that they didn__'__t think of her as a human being, but as a sort of domestic pet, rather: a pretty kitten, or something like that. It was difficult for her to blend in with them __– __from the very early days of her life she felt she was somehow a bit brighter than most of the adults around her. Sometimes, staring at the sky at night or sitting by her window listening to the rain (she __loved__ to do that) she would get a feeling that the world is a much greater and complicated place than it seemed at the first glance, that it is a mystery to be explored. Yet she could never explain that feeling to any of the people close to her. When she__'__d mention it, they would just say: __'__But of course the world is big, you should just cross the mountains to see how vast the next plane is, little Belle__'__, and they would toss her hair, and walk away smiling at the __'__silly little princess__'__. She couldn__'__t make them understand that she meant something beyond mountains and planes and forests. She felt frustrated at not being able to explain herself. At first she thought the problem was with her __– __she was weird. Then she discovered books and realized that there were other people in the world who knew what she meant, and had similar feelings and thoughts. Only none of them happened to be members of her family. So she read more and more, talking to the people on the pages rather than to her family, and gradually came to think of herself as an essentially lonely person._

_She was not na__ï__ve, she knew that books are books, and the stories in them are made up. She never expected her life to suddenly become like one of the stories she loved so much. She did not dream of adventures really happening to her, and she did not expect a handsome prince or a dark stranger to enter her life and change it._

_Yet, when it happened, it seemed like a completely natural thing._

_ Her father was fighting the ogres, and he was losing the war - the kingdom was about to fall. And, though distrustful of all magic, he saw no other option but to call on the Light One - the most powerful wizard in the world, who was also known as the Ogre Slayer, for he took no pity on these monsters. When he came, she had no idea what to expect - she thought all wizards were old slightly crazy gentlemen with long white beards. So when He came, she was surprised - he was not very young, that was true, but he was handsome and dashing in his leather coat, and his hair was of beautiful silver color, and he had most wonderful eyes - dark, kind and warm, just like chocolate. He appeared suddenly in a locked room, and everyone was a bit scared, but she was just curious: he looked like a person from one of her books, and she immediately wanted to know him better._

_The ogres were defeated in one instant, it seemed. He smiled wryly and said: "Well, congratulations on your little war", and was about to leave, adding, upon being asked, that he needed no reward for his services. But as he spoke he gave her a long and longing look, and suddenly she saw in his dark eyes something that belied his assured manner. It was sadness, sadness so deep and old that her compassion was sparkled as well as her curiosity. She stopped him, surprising her father, and asked him to stay with them and rest and celebrate the victory. He looked grateful and mildly surprised at her offer, as if nothing like that happened to him before. But he accepted, and they walked hand in hand into the dining chamber, and nobody questioned the fact that they sat alongside at the table. And they talked, and talked, oblivious of the curious glances from people around - they never saw their princess so animated and they certainly never expected a wizard to share her excitement._

_He stayed after dinner, and they walked in the garden, and she was mesmerized by his old and tired face, by his mild yet sarcastic manner of speech, by his habit to speak lightly of serious matters and joke with deadpan expression, by his quiet laugh, by his kindness, by his strong features and by his gleaming hair and by his sad, sad dark eyes. He had very long lashes - ridiculously long for a man, they looked almost odd on the face of a knight. And he had beautiful hands, soft and dry and warm, and when he touched her cheek with his fingertips and smiled tenderly at one of her over-enthusiastic remarks, she blushed and knew that something incredible and wonderful and scary happened to her._

_She fell in love. _

_ She fell in love with a powerful wizard, a light knight whom the whole country admired. And, incredibly and wonderfully and scarily, he fell in love with her._

_She did have a fianc__é__e, a nice enough lad from the circle of her father's knights. But this engagement sort of dissolved once it became apparent that the Light One himself wants to marry her. Her father was exited - such a connection was highly desirable. Naturally he had no objections to the wedding, and it took place rather soon: her husband-to-be did not want to wait. "I have waited my whole life for you, and do not want to lose any more time", he said. She did wonder how old he was, at that - she suspected that life of the Light One was longer that ordinary human's, but she never came to asking; she was sure there'd be plenty of time for talking once they started living together._

_Their wedding was a grand affair - everybody who mattered came, even the Evil Queen Snow White, a very powerful witch: obviously there was some mutual respect between magicians, light as well as dark ones._

_Her husband crafted a beautiful wedding dress for her, white with lace made of purest and lightest gold; he wore a golden mantle. But when he took her home after the wedding she found that his house was very humble - not much more than a peasant's hut. She wondered mildly why the greatest wizard in the land lives so modestly, and he explained that he was a poor peasant once in his youth, and wanted to stay in touch with his roots. Also, he didn't want to scare off people who came to seek his help with external magnificence. She admired his reasons, and she didn't mind a lot of housework she had to deal with: she was a princess, at that meant she was brought up to do all kinds of things._

_She got pregnant very soon after the wedding, and her husband was overjoyed. He surrounded her with care and love and when the child - a boy whom they called Neal - was born, he doted on the baby, as she never expected any man would. But then her husband was not an ordinary man, so she was not really surprised._

_They had a very good life - very cozy, very tender, and almost too domesticated for a man who left home to fight every day, after all. She was very proud of him, but deep in her heart she would have had to admit that she wasn't overly worried about him: with his magical powers no harm could befall him even in the harshest of battles. _

_Sometimes, sitting by her son's crib, watching the dust dance in the sunbeam, listening to cattle whistling and birds singing outside, waiting for the sounds of the horse's huffs to tell her that her husband is back home from his errands, she was struck by the slight feeling of unreality of all that. Everything happened so quickly, as if they lived in a fairy tale. A knight came and saw a princess, they fell in love, they married and bang - they live happily ever after. The end. No drama, no heartbreaks, no obstacles to overcome, no dragons to defeat - no... adventures that a girl might expect when she marries a warrior and a wizard._

_Her life was wonderful and full of love and light. But it wasn't very exiting._

_And her husband, though full of love and caring for her, remained a mystery to her._

_Yes, that was the thing that gnawed at her heart and brought on rare moments of uneasiness. Her husband was a very... closed man. She knew - she felt - that there were many, many things in his life, in his past, of which he never told her. He never told her of his elder son: she knew he already had a child, but the boy died and she never knew how. She was sure it was nothing sinister, her husband was too good a man to have ugly secrets; if he kept something from her she knew it was to protect her - he didn't want her to worry or to be upset. But still it saddened her, for his silence meant that one thing that she wanted first and foremost since the moment she saw him eluded her. She wanted to know him fully, to know the reason for that sadness in his eyes. And he never told her, and she cared for him too much to ask: she didn't want to upsets him by showing that she was not completely happy._

_So he kept his silence, and she kept seeing his sadness and ached at his secrets. She wondered what and why he isn't telling her; she was sure that she would have helped if she knew what shadows his soul. But she also respected his silence: he was a man and a wizard; he was entitled to his secrets._

_And she was sure that he would tell his wife everything when he is ready._

_There was plenty of time for that._

_And there was one other thing that kept her from ever calling her life boring or unexciting - a thing she would be too modest to mention even to her mother, let alone her friends, though she didn't have many friends, their life was rather lonely. And that thing was the way she felt about her husband when they were sharing a bed - and the way he changed when he was making love to her._

_When night fell, the mild, kind and slightly pompous knight-errant that people knew disappeared, and a man only she knew came into being, and wonderful wildness possessed him. He was still gentle and caring, but there was such passion, such intensity in everything he did to her that her head swam and her heart blossomed. On the wedding night he even shocked her slightly - he ravished her body, he fell on his knees to kiss her feet and her legs and... other places, and she blushed and she gasped and she felt as if her body is on fire and is about to melt in his arms, and when he kissed her all over and caressed her breasts and kissed her on the mouth and she tasted her own taste on his lips she wondered how she is still whole and hadn't exploded, and then he caressed her with his fingers, and she felt she __had__ exploded, and then he took her and it started all over again, the trembling and the heat and the madness, and when everything was over she saw tears in his eyes and he kept saying her name, "Belle, Belle, Belle, my beautiful Belle", again and again in his deep husky voice, and she cried with him not even knowing why._

_And at night, when they were together like that, she felt that she touches his secrets - that this man who loves her so wildly and needs her so desperately is the man he really is, and then she knew she knows him, after all. And for that knowledge, not just for the pleasures his gave her, she loved him, and told herself many times over as she thought about him when he was absent or when she looked at him, sitting by the fire with his cup of tea - he loved tea: "I would follow him everywhere, wherever he goes. Forever". And if he were present he would look at her sideways, as if reading her thoughts, and give her a quick smile, and sun would flicker on the silver in his hair and on his long lashes._

_And then she'd blush and think, irrationally: "This is too good to be true"._

_But it was true and it was a blissfully happy life until one day when a sleazy little man came to see her husband when he was away, and insistent on waiting, and when her husband came he was distinctly uneasy to see this little man. They sent her away to talk alone, and she felt sure that this man is connected with the secrets her husband keeps from her. And then the man left, and her husband was not himself - he was edgy, and troubled, and all his inner sadness became apparent. He spoke to her of a hard choice that he has to make to save the country - to save everything that they have, and she truly couldn't understand what worries him: he was a hero, all the choices he made were always the right ones. She told him something to that effect, and he looked at her with such deep, unimaginable regret, and gentle pity, as if she were a little girl, not a mother of his child and said: "It's not as simple as that". And she wanted to ask him: "What is it that troubles you so?" But she didn't dare, she wanted to lighten the moment and offered him some tea instead, and he dropped his favorite cup and chipped it, and somehow that upset him even more. She told him: "It is nothing, it is just chipped. We can fix it!", and he lowered his head and she could have sworn there were tears in his eyes._

_He cleaned his sword very thoroughly, and he dressed with unusual care before he went on his errand and before leaving he kissed her on the lips so strongly and with such despair that for the first time in all their life together she felt worried about him - she was mortally afraid something might happen to him._

_And she waited and waited while he was gone, and their son slept peacefully in his crib, and she couldn't calm herself down with anything that usually worked: reading, or knitting, or sewing. She just paced the house, coming up to the door every next minute, waiting for him to come back._

_And then he magically reappeared in the yard, which he didn't do often, not wishing to abuse magic for ordinary everyday things, she almost cried with relief: he was back, he was safe, everything was fine again!_

_But then she saw his face, and horror gripped her heart. She hardly recognized him: his face was ashen, all life gone from him, and his eyes were dark and flat, and his steps heavy as he approached her and just gazed at her with unbearable regret and sadness._

_"I have made the right choice", he said barely audibly. "I am sorry"._

_And with these words he fell on his knees in front of her, and embraced her, and his shoulders shook as he wept, and she caressed his head, running her fingers through his hair, and thought with cold and inexplicable clarity: "It is over. Everything is over"._

_And storm clouds gathered at the horizon as she looked up through her own tears, and their son woke in his crib and started to cry._


	52. Chapter 52

_52._

_He woke up to see the room basking in mild glow of the morning sunlight, to feel his beautiful young wife's body pressed to him, soft and warm, her auburn hair tossed and spread over the pillow and on his shoulder, to hear even breathing of their son, a blissfully quiet child, as he slept in his cot. He remained very still, cherishing the moment; he knew that once he stirred she would feel it and wake up and raise her lovely sleepy face to smile at him, and his lips would find hers, and they would be lost in the slow and sweet madness of their love. But he didn't want to drawn in his passion for her, didn't want to succumb to her sweetness and lose himself in her softness - not just yet. He needed a moment to think - to contemplate his life. For this morning, just like any morning since he knew her and loved her, he woke up to see his sunny house, to touch his loving wife, to hold his newborn son and to think: "This is too good to be true"._

_He knew the exact price that he paid for the life he had before he met her. He was a powerful wizard and the celebrated hero of the land, respected and admired, feared by his enemies, adored by children who imitated his victories and adventures in their games. He was the paragon of light and goodness, everyone's hope, the protector, the perfect knight in shining armor. And he gained all that because a long time ago he lost the only person who was truly dear to him - his eldest child, his first son. He was an ordinary man then, and they both had to serve at one of the uncountable Orge Wars, and he survived while his son perished. He could do nothing to save his boy, and his loss nearly broke him, but somehow he managed to find strength in his grief. He had sworn that he would slay the ogres wherever he finds them, and his mad courage and blind dedication were rewarded - he was given a magical power of light to help him in his task._

_Thus his old simple life of a peasant and a soldier ended and his life of a wizard and a warrior began._

_And it was a good life, and useful one - he was able to help people and bring hope into their lives. But it was acquired with a price, as all magic is. And if anyone ever asked him - would he wish to change the past, would he be willing to lose all these splendors and all that power but keep his boy alive, he wouldn't hesitate, not for one instant. Anything, he would have given anything to save his son. That was the constant ache he had to live with: everything he had meant nothing to him compared to his loss._

_But then, unexpectedly and miraculously, his life changed. He had met Her, his princess, and despite his age and his mediocre looks she fell in love with him, and conceded to share his modest life, and gave him a new child, and turned a life of solitude into the bliss of true love. It all happened so smoothly, as if in a fairy tale - as if it was written in the stars by benevolent hand wishing to give him everything he ever dreamed of._

_And being a powerful wizard and an old and wise man, he wondered - every morning as he woke up to the same perfect picture - what was the price he'd have to pay for all that, and when the day of reckoning would come._

_And when that day comes - as he knew it would, for there has to be a price for everything, a happiness as great as his must cost enormously... When that day comes, would he be able to pay? And what would be asked of him?_

_Yet it is pointless to contemplate events before they occurred, so he cast these uneasy thoughts aside, and turned his head to kiss his wife, and drowned in her blue eyes, and his flesh trembled at her touch, and her hair fell over him as light-filled waterfall, sheltering him from the world and from any harm._

_He came out for his daily errands later: he felt it was his duty to inspect the kingdom everyday, checking if he was needed anywhere. Usually all was quiet, but today he met some excitement: a stray ogre attacked one of the villages, nearly killing a strange boy whom he never saw before. He saved the child, naturally, and rode away, but something about the boy stirred his memory and troubled his soul. His face looked familiar, though he was sure he never set eyes on him before. Some time had passed before he could nail the feeling and understand what the problem was, and his heart gave a painful jerk as he realized: that boy looked like his son. The elder son, the one that died. Not exactly like him, of course, but there was something about his eyes, and the line of his mouth, and the manner of speech that reminded him distinctly of Bae._

_The feeling was not pleasant. It was disturbing. He was too old and had seen too much to believe in coincidences, and appearance of that boy was bound to mean something._

_He was unsettled and unhappy as he rode home, and he only wished for one thing - to see his wife and embrace her and forget about everything. But when he came home he found a stranger in his house - a sneaky little fellow who looked like a small-time crook and told him strangest things. He accused him of deluding people, of not being a real hero - he threatened to reveal some ugly truth about his elder son. And he also told him that their whole world, all the happiness they enjoyed, was in danger for the known bandit, Regina, and the very boy he saved today wanted to stop the wedding of the reformed thief, Robin Hood. And if he, the Light One, wouldn't kill them, everything would be lost._

_He listened to the man with amazement first, irritation and anger later. But with every world that he said something stirred in his soul. Doubt. Sadness. And inexplicable foreboding..._

_And than he realized: it happened. That day when he had to answer for all the happiness bestowed on him, the day of reckoning had come._

_It all sounded very strange, very cunning, like a test - like a crafty trap to check his dedication to goodness. He knew Regina the Bandit - she was a good girl, a lost princess, and a victim of Evil Queen Snow White's unjust vengeance. She might have been an outlaw, but she never did anything that merited killing her. As to the strange boy, that boy that looked like his son - he couldn't have done anything bad yet, he was just a kid. And how could the Light One, the protector and the hero, kill an innocent woman and a young child? How could _that_ serve goodness?_

_And yet he sensed that the little man spoke the truth - if these two stay alive, the world they live in would be lost. He would be gone. His wife would be gone, and their child._

_It __was__ a test._

_Fate wanted to try him - that was clear. Would he remain on the pat of light and goodness, even if it would mean sacrificing his personal happiness? Would he be able to find in his soul the strength and the sternness necessary for the sacrifice? Does he still have it in him, or has he become too soft? Or will he commit unthinkable crimes, but save the world he lives in - and his happiness along with it?_

_Oh that was all very disturbing and confusing, and somehow absurd: to think that the fate of the whole land depended on some wedding coming through or being prevented! Too petty, too... small a thing to matter. _

_It felt as if the hand that wrote their lives belonged to a mediocre writer with limited imagination and no understanding of human nature. A tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing, as the poet said._

_He knew he was upsetting his wife with his heavy thoughts and his gloomy look; she rarely asked him questions about his feelings, for she seemed to feel his every mood, but he knew that she is always curious. He wished he could tell her what was bothering him. He wished he could be certain of it himself - that he could put a finger on the exact reason of his confusion: there was something else apart from the difficulty of his choice and the obvious lack of logic in the task presented to him._

_He felt... at odds with himself._

_He looked around him, at his small yet cozy home, at his wife, incredibly pretty in her summer dress, busily making tea. He had a good life, and if anyone asked him he would have had to confess that he believed he actually deserved it. He fought and waited and suffered enough to enjoy his happiness. But on this particular day, at this particular instant he was struck by the sense of unreality of all that. It all seemed too picture-perfect: this bright day, this girl with shining eyes, this pretty little boy in the cot; and he himself, respected, admired, unblemished in every aspect._

_It all seemed... artificial._

_Unreal._

_Too good to be true._

_He did try to explain himself to her, but with maddening brightness and unshakable faith in him she brushed his doubts away, saying: "You are a hero. You always make the right choice"._

_And as he looked into her clear blue eyes words of the little stranger echoed in his mind: _"You know you are not really a hero"._ He spoke with such conviction, that sneaky bastard. As if he knew something special about him - about all of them. As if he was aware of some... underside of things; some painful secret. Some darkness that lingered in their lives, shying away from the light, but actually just waiting for the right moment to appear._

_"It is not as simple as that", he said, unable to explain himself more clearly. And she smiled and offered him a cup of tea - she was convinced that all problems could be solved with a cup of tea, and usually he found that very endearing, but just as he said it wasn't as simple as that. And as he was still preoccupied with his thoughts, he was careless, and dropped his cup, and it chipped - a small bit of porcelain fell off just at the brim. And for some reason this trivial, mundane thing shook him deeply - this lovely little cup seemed like a symbol of their sunny world, and it proved to be so fragile._

_She saw how upset he was, and attempted to cheer him up. "It is nothing, it is just chipped - we can fix it!" And it somehow felt even worse; she seemed to be diminishing something very, very important, and what should have sounded as happy assurance in the best outcome sounded as carelessness._

_Sometimes he wished she wasn't quite so cheerful and bright about everything._

_Sometimes when he dreamed he saw them - both of them - as different people, much less happy ones, clashing and struggling and suffering. But much more real. Truly alive; but as he woke he could never remember his dreams, not in details - just the general feeling._

_And now, as she held the chipped cup and smiled, an image from his dream came to him in a flash: her face, worried and sad, her hands, holding a chipped cup, her voice apologizing for breaking it. And a giggle - strange yet vaguely familiar giggle as someone brushed her problem away._

_It must have been him - his voice. Yet how could that be?_

_He left her with a heavy heart as he went to the chapel were the thief's wedding was taking place; he had to at least check what was going on. And his acute sense of magic happening around him told him that things were not well. He never realized that the thief was going to marry Zelena - despicable girl, selfish and full on envy; surely she had to use some witchcraft to attract such a good-hearted fellow as Robin. And he sensed love in the air - not between the bride and the groom: Regina just came to the churchyard, and that wave of affection floated between her and the thief - who was about to marry another. And it was obvious that if he sees her in time, he'd realize where his true feelings lay, and they would be reunited._

_And they would kiss._

_So that was the magical happening that had to be prevented. A kiss born out of true love._

_But why?_

_They lived in a happy and bright world where love triumphed. _

_He was the Light One, the protector of people's happiness. Why should he stand in a way of true love?_

_A voice, strangely like his own yet very different, spoke in his head with a hint of sneer. _"A kiss born out of true love would break any curse".

_So there was a curse to break._

_They lived under the curse._

_Their world, bright and happy and full of love, was nevertheless a curse. Something evil. Something unnatural._

_It was his duty to break it, not to keep it._

_It was his duty as a hero to destroy the world in which he found his happy ending._

That_ had to be his choice._

_That was the _right_ choice._

_Yet still he hesitated. Because he wasn't, really, a hero?_

_Than who was he?.._

_A strange woman and a child stood in his way - that same boy whom he saved, that boy who reminded him of his son._

_He dealt with the woman easily; he knocked her out with a flash of light. Yet before he could do that, she addressed him, trying to stop his interference, and she called him by a weird name._

_The Dark One._

_"You got the name wrong, dearie", he laughed, but his laughter sounded strained even to his own ears._

_The name sounded so... Right._

_The Dark One. Was that really him? Was he living a lie? Was everything he thought about himself an illusion - a murky spell... A curse?_

_A curse that was about to be broken by a kiss of true love between a bandit and a thief._

_No. A kiss of true love is a powerful thing, but it wasn't enough to break a curse so strong as to delude him._

_Something else was needed._

_The boy with his son's features stood between him and the church now. He had to get past him, but the child was determined to fight - he took up a sword._

_Killing an innocent child was not something a hero could do. Never. In any world. Not under the influence of any curse._

_He raised his sword, hoping the boy would get frightened - would step away. But the boy with his son's face stood firm, holding his gaze._

_His sword fell just short of the boy - just missing touching him, exactly as he intended. But instead of thin air it slashed through flesh - solid and warm flesh of a woman who rushed to protect the child, and stepped in front of him._

_Regina._

_An innocent woman, saving a child, slain by the noble knight._

_Just how absurd was that?_

_Just as absurd - and as right - as it should have been, he realized as he sensed magic coming into motion around him, changing and twisting, getting ready to reshape of the world._

_He was right - there was something even stronger than a kiss of true love needed to break that curse. It was a power of sacrifice. And he put it into motion by hurting Regina - it started, he could already feel the changes in the air._

_He killed a hero and that was the _right_ choice, for it was necessary to break the curse._

_It was the right choice for him for he was not, really, a hero._

_It was all a lie._

_All his life, all his love, all his light... All just a lie._

_Tale told by an idiot._

_Magic moved massively over the heads of people gathered in the churchyard. The boy, crying over the slain woman; the thief, running towards her out of the chapel, forgetting his bride; the bride, showing her true ugly nature. The sneaky bastard who came to warn him of all that - he was here as well. And none of them paid him any attention._

_He has done his bit. He made his choice, wrong for all standards of normality but right in the bigger scheme of things._

_It was happening. The curse was breaking._

_And his heart was breaking with it._

_"It is done", he said, to no one in particular._

_And then he disappeared._

_He had to say his good-byes. He had to face his wife and try to explain to her the unexplainable: that, by turning dark, he served the light._

_There is no light without darkness, he should have remembered that. Someone had to be dark so that the rest of the world could enjoy the light. And that was him._

_The Dark One._

_He became a villain, and that broke the curse._

_He made the right choice._

_Yet when he faced her, so sweet and gentle and innocent, so worried about him, so happy that he was back, so confident in him... loving him so much... When he faced her he couldn't find the words and the voice to tell her. He just fell on his knees, embracing her, weeping._

_She would understand. He knew she would understand._

_And as he wept and she wept with him, the force of magic swept the land, obliterating it, turning light into darkness and darkness into light, and as darkness to which he belonged engulfed him the only sound he could hear was the crying of their son - that child that never was._


	53. Chapter 53

53

Waking up from the curse of the new magical book the author had written for her husband felt like waking up from a nightmare - a peculiar one where she was happy and he was with her, but everyone else was miserable. It took her a moment to understand that it was not just a bad dream. It was a proper curse, a very powerful one, and everything in it was turned upside down. It was not just about villains getting happy endings - she was a generous soul, she wouldn't deny anyone a happy ending. It was about twisting the very nature of people, and it was disgusting.

Did he really wish for such a world? Was he that cruel?

Oh no, it was not cruelty. It was selfishness. He just didn't care for all others - his only concern was his happiness. And that involved turning her into some perpetually smiling moron who asked no questions. And that involved having her with him - when he set her free so nobly and selflessly in the real world! And that involved creating an artificial world to live his life with her - when he could have easily had it in the real world, without ruining people's lives.

He was impossible, impossible! Just when she started to believe in him again, just when they were on the brink of regaining their love - he'd come and do something that stupid and pointless! Would it ever change? Will he ever learn? Would she be ever able to stop him?

She was very angry, and very hurt. And, instead of biding her time and calming down and gathering her thoughts, she let the impulsive side of her rule, and she rushed to confront him. They really, really needed to talk. It was time he stopped this nonsense of trying to arrange their life with the aid of magic. It was time he gave them a chance to just live normally.

It was time he listened to her!..

She ran into the shop just as the author was leaving, and she shuddered at his sight: she remembered how unpleasant his visit to their house was, there under the curse. And she detested his inability to write a good story. If she knew something about things in the world, she knew about books. And this little fellow wrote a bad book.

Yet they were so happy in it.

No, she couldn't think of that now - she had to get rid of all the bright and sunny images of their false love; she had to forget their charming love story, their glorious wedding, their passion, their lovely home... She had to forget their child - the child they never really had. She needed all her anger if she wanted to talk some sense into her husband's head.

She started shouting, finding strength in her anger.

And then she saw his face.

She had seen him when he thought he lost his son. She had seen him when he was dying. She had seen him in captivity. She had seen him when he really lost his son.

But she never saw him like that.

So pale that his face was grey, as if turning to dust.

Trembling and shaking, as if falling apart.

So weak he couldn't stand up and collapsed on the floor at her feet, breathing shallowly, his eyes the only living and struggling thing about him.

His eyes, full of love, pleading with her not to punish him with her reproofs and her preaching; pleading with her just to stay with him a moment longer, quiet and soft and bright, as she used to be once.

To stay with him and make him feel her love while there is still time.

For there was no time for anything anymore.

He was dying.

Not stepping into the light, enveloped by magic of his sacrifice.

Really, really dying.

That man, that man she loved so much - he was going, fading away, eaten by darkness of his heart, darkness brought on by grief and suffering and much as by crimes and mistakes.

It is strange how words of reproof die on your tongue; how everything fades into nothingness at the face of imminent loss.

What does it matter if he was good or bad, listened to her or ignored her, when he will seize being - right now, right here, before her eyes?..

She knew why he needed the curse of the new book now - why he couldn't build their life together in the real world.

There was no time.

There was no time, but still he wanted a taste of happiness that their life could have given them. And who could blame him?

There was no time, and he was robbed of it not just by his whole life of pain and darkness - she robbed him of some of that time when she pushed him out of her life.

So when she asked him, why didn't he use his chance to live with her happily when it was possible, when they were just married and everything seemed so hopeful, she didn't need him to answer - not really. And when he gave her his answer, she didn't need further explanations.

"Because I couldn't believe it", he whispered.

And she knew why - she knew all his "whys", even the ones he'd never have voiced because he forgave her, and cared for her, and cherished her, and loved her. He couldn't believe because all his life he was robbed of all vestiges of happiness and knew this would be taken from him too. Because she abused the power of the dagger. Because she tried and corrupted their happiness with doubts of her own. Because she didn't believe it, too. Not strongly enough.

Not for the both of them.

She held him close, willing with all her being to take away his pain - wishing her heart could beat for his, trying to transfer her strength into his failing body. But he, being himself, tried to shy from her embrace - as ever, wishing to protect her, wanting to give her freedom, sending her away to the bright wide world, into the arms of a young man she didn't love.

Didn't he know she wouldn't go away? Didn't he know she doesn't need her freedom?

He just couldn't believe it. Ever since she came back with that basket of straw and he asked her, "Why did you come back?" She never answered him properly.

And he couldn't believe it.

And when a wizard cannot believe, magic is powerless. Even the magic of true love.

There was urgency and fear in his voice as he urged her to run - again, - to take herself as far away from him as she could before he dies - before the man in him is gone and only the monster remains. But she had no fear; the only thing she wanted was to stay with him, pressing her brow to his, and look into his eyes. His kind, loving, gentle eyes - while they were still his.

Did he find comfort in her presence? Was he thankful? She doubted it; he was too exhausted by his fight, too wrapped up in his pain. But she needed to stay with him, to touch him, to be close - as long as she could. As long as he'd let her.

His dagger had fallen on the floor where they sat, and there was a moment when he picked it up and held it hesitantly. What did he want to do with it? Did he want her to put it through his chest and end his sufferings? Did he want to kill himself, as he did once before, madly hoping it would stop the darkness from roaming free, as it did once before? He dropped the dagger almost at once. He was so tired, futility of all hope and any action were so apparent in his every move, and that sight, the way he let go of the blade, which always meant so much to him, so easily - tore at her heart, making it bleed for him.

She couldn't just sit here and watch him die. Not again. This was different from the scene on the Main Street. There would be no light of atonement and hope now. This was real. This was final.

She had to do something.

The girl she used to be, the reckless and naive princess who believed in simple miracles would have an obvious answer.

His power, that darkness in his heart, was a curse.

A kiss born out of true love would break any curse.

She could do it - she could do it right now. And perhaps it would save him. But, remembering her clumsy spells of old, she couldn't be sure. It might destroy him - humanity and magic were twisted in him in a way much too complex now. And what would happen to the darkness - she remembered the way he emerged from the vault when she and Bae resurrected him and she understood it was almost a physical thing, not just some magical... emanation. Would it be set free? Would it attack him, trying to get him back?

The dreamer in her wanted to kiss him - wanted love to triumph, then and there.

The practical girl checked her.

She needed help. She needed help of real magicians to save her husband, and goodness knows this town was full of them.

But how can she ask for that if she knows that everyone hates him so?

Practical girl found a way.

It broke her heart to leave him there on the floor, alone, barely breathing.

She pressed his hand: "I will come back".

His lips moved, and she thought she understood him. "Don't".

She kissed his brow. "It's forever, remember?"

He didn't hear her - not anymore.

She ran to Granny's, where everyone celebrated their deliverance from evil, as usual. Collected herself, wiping tears from her cheeks - she needed to look like a hero concerned by the safety of the town, not like a silly girl desperately wanting to save their enemy.

She told them she needed their help, for if he'd truly turn dark, they'd all be in danger. So he told her.

She probably told the truth. He wouldn't lie about such a thing.

They believed her. They agreed to help.

Fascinated and scared and worried to death she watched the old wizard, the Sorcerer's apprentice, remove his heart from his chest. Oh I hope he doesn't feel it - I hope it doesn't hurt!

She saw how the old man sucked the darkness out of his heart and send it into the magical hat that gave them all so much grief.

She expected his heart to be red and glowing once it was free, like all human hearts she saw before - like her own heart was when it was removed from her chest. Yet liberated from all the cursed darkness his heart proved to be white. Shining as sunlight.

Pure.

She used to say, "I know that his heart is true". Yet even she didn't expect _that_.

Was that what his heart was like before he turned to darkness to save his son? Was he that pure - that clean - that true? That heart, shining like light itself, could have belonged to the greatest of heroes. Was that what he was supposed to be, before fate set to beat him and break him?

And perhaps he was the greatest of heroes for, by keeping darkness trapped in such a pure heart, he was protecting them all.

The old wizard put the heart back into his chest, and she clasped his hand, expecting him to open his eyes and to look around in wonder - surely he must feel very strange now. And when he opens them, he will see her - he will see all the love she has for him.

Come on. Open your eyes.

Ah, it will happen now - any moment now.

But he didn't stir.

He has been through a lot, the old man said, putting a protection spell over his prostate body. He was the Dark One for centuries. We will have to see if he survives this change.

"If?!" Was that really her voice, so harsh and frightened?

Nobody bothered to answer. They were busy - fighting the darkness that escaped from the magical hat and went to haunt the town, just as he predicted it would.

They left. They had many problems to solve, and very serious ones. And the man they all always turned to in times of trouble - the man they feared and despised and yet depended on him... He wasn't around to help them anymore.

She remained sitting on the floor next to the body of the man she loved, holding his hand.

His hand was cool and waxen. Unfeeling.

She was too stunned for tears.

Her wish of many years ago has come true. He was changed. His curse broken, all darkness gone from him.

He was not the Dark One anymore. He was not even a wizard anymore.

He was an ordinary man, and he was in a coma, and she knew he might never wake up. She remembered how a long time ago, when he was gone to Neverland, she feared for his life and imagined how the heroes would bring his body back to her, and she would weep over his coffin and kiss his pale brow, as befits a fairy tale princess.

Just as she was doing now.

But she didn't feel like a fairy tale princess. She felt like a real woman devastated by grief and torn by fear that her husband would never open his eyes again.

Tears came, at last. She sat racking with quiet sobs, running her fingers through his hair, whispering his name.

And she wished she could turn the time back and undo her attempts to change him. She wished she never preached to him and never accused him of anything; for as she sat by his lifeless body she realized that, however much she always talked about his soul and how he should strive to make it better, it didn't really matter.

She knew his darkness, and could deal with it - not always smoothly, but she could.

She didn't know his light yet, but she would get used to it. Of course she would.

If he would wake up now and be dark again, she would cry with joy.

If he would wake up as a stranger to her, with this pure heart, if he would wake up a man she never knew, she would cry with joy, and hope that his untainted heart would color with the red glow of their love.

If he would wake up just a baffled and weak old man, she would cry with joy, for it still would be him - his eyes, voice, and his mind. His soul, however confused.

His soul could be anything, anything at all, all light or all darkness as long as it was in his body. As long as it was him - his self, his imperfect and fragile self, with his bony fingers that trembled when he touched her and his warm eyes and his voice that caught when he spoke her name.

Body and soul together she loves in him.

Body and soul together make a man.

And the only thing she wished for as she held his cold fingers in her hand and wept soundlessly was for that man to return to her.

And she knew that, after all that time of fighting a monster in him, it was now that her power of hope was to be tested finally. She was his light, he used to say, and he always praised and sometimes cursed her stubborn ability to believe the best, no matter what.

He probably wouldn't need her light now if - when! - he wakes up. But she knew he needed her stubborn faith and her blind hope, and she knew it would take all strength to believe the best now.

She pressed his fingers tighter, willing them to move. Even a little bit - just a twitch, just a tiny tremble.

Nothing.

It was all right. It would come. He would move.

He would wake up for her.

She sat on the floor, holding his hand, hoping with all her heart.


	54. Chapter 54

54

People in a coma can hear you.

They are not being silly and too hopeful, all these tearful relatives who come to coma patients in hospitals every day to read to them, to play them music, to hold their hands and whisper caring, silly hopeful words. People in a coma can hear them, and these words, this music and those caressing hands serve as a lifeline that connects them to reality - a tiny tread of life that might eventually lead them back to the light out of the labyrinth of darkness where their weak bodies keep their souls.

People in a coma can hear you, and feel you. Especially if it is a magical coma, more protection than curse. And especially if a girl that holds your hand and kisses your brow is the only love of your life. That tiny tread you feel is almost physical then - it is the bond of love that always connected you two.

He felt her when she sat by his side, kissing his hand, putting her fingers on his brow, running them through his hair. He heard her soft "I love you. Please come back to me", repeated over and over again. And no matter how deadly tired he was, how empty and spent, how ready to let go of everything and find final peace, he couldn't. She loved him. She wanted him back with her. He couldn't let her down.

How cruel she was, and how powerful. His beautiful girl. His love, lost and found and lost again... And found again.

He remained there on his camp-bed, motionless, unable to move - unable to even cry. And he kept listening to her, and remembering the look in her eyes when, as he was dying, she pressed her brow to his and just gazed at him, solemnly, speechless, urging him to stay, promising him hope. He had so many of her looks and smiles stored in the vaults of his memory. Her innocent coquetry as she embraced him in the woods when he spared the thief's life. Her indulgent smile as she stood on the ladder in his castle, just before falling into his arms. Her dreamy eyes as she tried to kiss him for the first time. The shining happiness with which she greeted him when he returned from Neverland. The tearful happiness of seeing him alive again as he emerged from the vault when she and Bae resurrected him. So many looks and smiles - shining, dazzling, misted with passion, warmed with affection, alight with hope. Yet his favorite look of hers always used to be the one she gave him when they first met and she promised to be with him forever - that solemn, deep and open look that made her promise true more than any words would. If only he could believe her... Well, he believed her now for, after everything he's done, she stood by him, she held him close and she gave him that new look - this new promise. That look, that sad and open and tender gaze, would be the favorite of his from now on.

If only he could move, or cry, or press her hand. If only he could let her know that he hears her - that he is with her and knows of her love, and of her sufferings. For she did suffer, of course - he understood how unbearable it is to sit by his side day by day, helpless, useless, feeling guilty and hopeless. So when she left his bedside and went with other heroes on their hopeless quest of saving the Savior, he did not blame her. Did he not leave her bedside when she lost her memory - didn't he go to New York? He went to New York to find his son. She went to Camelot to find herself. She had to. She had to have a life of her own - she couldn't spend all her time chained to him. He was glad she understood that.

The Fairy gave her a rose - a magical rose that would inform her if and when he died. A rather useless thing for someone who was going to another realm: so what if she learned of his demise when being in another world? And she gave it to her with a rather meaningless phrase about Beast's life being linked to the rose.

A Beast, indeed. He was no longer a beast.

If only he could smile at the irony.

He was a man now. An ordinary man - the one she always wanted him to be.

He wondered how she'd like that. How she would react to this new old him - to the ordinary man he was once and whom she never knew.

He wondered if that was even true, that thought of "being an ordinary man once". Was he an ordinary man, ever? His life was plagued by magic since he was a little boy. His father was an evil wizard. He was raised by spinsters who, he was almost sure, were witches. He had a gift of spinning which was extraordinary - almost magical. He got his power through the curse of the dagger, but he wondered - perhaps he did have some magic in him all along. Perhaps all people in the Enchanted Forest have that sleeping gift in them - that power that might wake up in them any moment.

And, even leaving magic alone - wasn't he rather unusual, always? Cunning. Clever. Desperate. Loving. Able to sacrifice himself and to fight for his loved ones. No, he was never an ordinary man - now, after centuries of discovering his true self with the aid of his magic, he knew that. He lost a lot to his power, but it sure gave him one thing in return: self-respect. Self-esteem.

It would be fun to wake up, and start living again, and rediscover himself.

If only he could wake up.

But he couldn't, and he remained on his bed, and fairies kept him company now that She was gone, and instead of her tender whispers he had to listen to these flying pests discussing their grime situation. Emma had become the Dark One and had to be brought back to light. Merlin was their only hope of doing that. How did the mission go? How it would end? It went on and on. He wished he could snort ironically. He wished he could speak - he could tell them a lot about those things. He would have told them not to expect too much from Merlin: powerful and legendary as he was, he was a weak man, naive and susceptible to lies, easily tricked - he knew all about him from the Dark One that was his lover and whose soul he saw when he possessed the power. If only he had known that Merlin was the mysterious Sorcerer that forged the magical hat, so much trouble could have been avoided. He started his affair with the hat, that quest of using it to free himself from the dagger that eventually ruined his life with Belle, only because he was afraid that the Sorcerer was more powerful than he and therefor could bend him to his will. But Merlin never could out-master him. He just didn't have it in him. And he would never fight Merlin - he had no need to. Merlin was the Light One, he was necessary. Darkness and light have to coexist for the world to be in balance.

He was worried by the things fairies discussed. Emma was not a suitable person to become the Dark One; this girl could hardly hold her light magic, she wouldn't know what to do with darkness - how to control it. She was too rash, to blatant for dealing with darkness; there were no shades and shadows in her life, she lived in a black and white world, knew only good and bad, and one has to understand all the shades of grey to be the Dark One. Silly, silly heroic girl, she needed a teacher. She needed someone to guide her. To save her from mistakes. He would have done that... But he couldn't.

He had to remain still on his bed, knowing everything, unable to do anything.

And then, after those endless weeks and yet suddenly, as such things happen, heroes came back from their mission. Apparently they failed. Emma was darker than ever. They lost their memory to a curse - again. They were lost and confused.

But She was back to his bedside, gentle and sweet as ever. Worried about him. Kissing his hand. Caressing his hair.

Oh he wished that his coma were a curse that could be broken by a kiss of true love. She gave him so many kisses one of them definitely would have worked.

He believed it now.

He wished he could respond. He wished he could wake up to see her eyes, bright and loving and filled with grateful tears.

But fate, which never tired of playing with him, was not to stop even now, when he was not a wizard anymore. Really, it expressed too much interest in an "ordinary man" that he once was and now became again. No "ordinary man" could become a victim of so many misadventures. He was chosen - at least by fate and at least for this constant beating.

His evil fate wouldn't rest, wouldn't leave him alone. Dark Swan kidnapped him and woke him up with dark magic, and instead of his own bed and his loving wife he faced a gloomy cell and a slightly deranged blond girl raving about great deeds.

This situation - being held in a cell by a madwoman and tortured into crazy deals - had become a bit repetitive.

Emma revealed her plan to him. He was to become a hero. Not just a hero - The Hero, the one capable of pull Excalibur from the stone. A feat that only the man with the purest, bravest heart could perform for anyone unworthy would perish trying. She figured she could turn his "clean slate" of a soul into a person light enough to be the chosen one. She needed the sword for some reason - presumably evil reason. Perhaps she wanted to turn this sword against the light; that was a silly ambition Darks Ones before him always cherished, and she might have listened to their souls now trapped in hers. He never saw the point of that idea: why destroy the light? It would destroy the darkness too. As said before, both were necessary to balance the world. But Emma just might have been naive enough to accept such a plan. As a Savior, she wanted to destroy the darkness. As the Dark One, she might have switched goals.

Now, there was something fishy about that, and something very wrong with this plan. He knew his strong qualities - he had brains, he was cunning, he was desperate in a fight for love, he could love with true love. But heroic purity of heart could never, ever be his - he was just too clever for such blind bravery. But Emma believed she could force him into heroics and, being as blatant and straightforward as a dark witch as she was when light, she wouldn't take no for an answer, and wouldn't listen to reason.

He had to stop her - had to oppose her. It would have been a bad thing if he did become a hero and helped her to gain the sword. It would have been a bad thing if he did not become a hero and died after just touching the noble blade. Both outcomes that he could expect were extremely unpleasant, so he had to use his brains to avoid them. So he acted as cowardly and weakly as he could: crying, sniveling, begging to be let go, limping around and falling down, refusing to fight with the redheaded Scottish princess that Emma forced to "train" him. All that time watching for the right moment to escape. Waiting for his chance; using every opportunity.

His heart broke, as he had to break Belle's chipped cup. It was broken before, by her in her madness, but he was a wizard then and could make it whole again. He wouldn't be able to, now. But perhaps he wouldn't need to. Perhaps now, when he was free of darkness, Belle wouldn't cling to symbols of their past and her incessant fight for his soul and just accept him as he is.

So he broke it, and cut his ropes, and made his way to her library, and faced her - finally, after all those weeks, after all his stillness and silence, he could touch her, and speak to her, and be with her again.

It was such a strange, such an awkward reunion.

She was so beautiful - more beautiful than ever. Her eyes so bright, her voice so soft. He felt her warmth, her concern, her deepest affection. Her heart went out to him, she was ready to support him, to help him, to endlessly encourage him. He felt all that.

The only thing he did not feel was her love.

She did not love him now, this girl he loved so much. And it was not because of their various separations and past hurts. It was not because she changed and loved another.

It was because of him. He changed. He became a man whom she never met, and didn't know.

And she didn't love him.

It took him a long time to fully grasp it - it was just so unbelievable. She didn't kiss him when they met - she just held his hand, but he could expect that - too much happened between them before he fell into his coma, there was too much suffering and pain, they needed to talk before they could kiss. And then they were distracted - the Scottish princess attacked again, and he was forced to fight, and he realized, with dismay that his escape actually contributed to his becoming a hero. If only Belle listened to him and they left town - Emma's plans would have been ruined then, and all would have been well... They could have started a new life in a world free of magic - free of their difficult past; they could have built their lives anew. But Belle was... Belle. She wanted him to fight. She wanted him to become a hero... Why would she want a hero now if she used to want an ordinary man before? And couldn't she realize that him becoming a hero would actually promote the plans of the Dark One? Oh no, all her cleverness temporarily left her, and she insisted that he must fight and thus succumb to Emma's plan.

She left him in the middle of the forest when she realized that all he wanted was escape. Left him so easily and just walked away from him into the darkness of the trees.

And still he couldn't really grasp how much things changed.

Of course he followed her. Of course he had to fight - he had to fight a giant bear, for goodness sake! Unthinking, hopeless, blindly brave. All for her. He had to win - by pure chance. And he had to feel his heart changing ever so slightly by this act of stupid bravery; making him a hero. Making him a tool in Emma's hands.

Belle looked at him with concern and admiration as he pulled the sword from the stone. She said all the right things, as did he. And he stood there, holding the sword miraculously accessible to him, and thought: "Something is very wrong here".

He performed one heroic act; not nearly as heroic as giving his life for others, as he did once when he killed himself along with his father, and that didn't make him a hero then. One stupid and brave thing couldn't make him a hero now. Certainly not a hero worthy of pulling Merlin's precious sword from the enchanted stone.

The sword felt definitely odd in his hand. A powerful magical object, obviously. But the epitome of light magic - the all-powerful blade able to destroy darkness once and for all?.. He had his doubts about that.

Something was wrong here. With the stone, with the sword, or with himself.

And something was wrong with Belle.

She did not kiss him when they met in the library. She did not kiss him in the woods after he defeated the bear. She embraced him, yes, but as he pressed his face to her hair and inhaled her scent, and felt the gentleness of her body next to his, finally, she went slightly stiff, and her lips never touched his.

She did not kiss him when they went back home after that sword-pulling stunt. They did not make love. She walked awkwardly to the kitchen, muttering that he must be tired, that she would make them a cup of tea.

He watched her slender back, and his heart sunk.

She opened the fridge, saying that she'd make sandwiches, and stood there motionless, absorbed in thought. He said he'd see about the tea, and limped towards the cupboard, and she told him to sit down in a slightly harsh voice, and there was something in her eyes that he never saw there before. Pity. She pitied him - for his age, for his weakness, for his lame leg.

They sat at the kitchen table, talking and drinking that damned tea. That was a good thing - they needed to talk. They needed to talk for a long time now, they had to clear the air so that they could rebuild their love. Only it felt that there was nothing to rebuild now, and if he looked deep into his heart right then he would have known it.

But he did not - not yet. He was just too happy to see her. To be in the same room with her.

God, he missed her so much. All that time in New York when she banished him from town for his evil deeds. All that time as he was trying to build the curse of the new book when he had to stay away from her and watch her kiss another man. All that time in a coma, when she was away. He hasn't seen her for so long... He almost forgot what it felt like to be near her again.

Perhaps she was right and they needed to take things slowly. Had to get accustomed to each other again. Strange - they didn't need that after 28 years of the first curse - they reconnected at once then. And after a year he spent in Zelena's power - they made love the second they were reunited then.

But not now.

Things changed now.

He changed.

He was not the man she fell in love with. As simple as that.

Late into the night, unable to bear this forced conversation any longer, desperately looking for an excuse that would set her free of his company at least for an hour, he said he must get down to his shop - he had to check what was ruined or missing.

She said she was very tired.

"Go to bed", he said. "I will see you in the morning".

She him gave a weak smile, probably appreciating his kindness, his naive trick that would give her time to think.

He spent that night sitting on his camp-bed, alone, thinking and at the same time blank minded - stunned, silent, unbelieving. Lost – aimless. Abandoned. Filled with hope that every second she'd walk in and fall into his arms. Knowing full well that she wouldn't. Refusing to admit it. At least not yet.

And in the morning when she joined him in the shop she smiled brightly and they didn't talk of last night. They were busy anyway - they finally learned Emma's secret: the fact that she turned her lover, the pirate, into a Dark One too. And he was the man who cast the curse; and he was the man who put the sword back into the stone, for that sword now was his dagger - the thing that could control and kill him.

And that explained everything. He would never have been able to pull Merlin's Excalibur from the stone - he was not a hero enough for that. But to pull out of the stone a sword put there by angry, disturbed and inexperienced Dark One?.. Oh, he was hero enough for that.

Pirate challenged him to a duel - a duel that was a repetition of the fight they never had on the pirate's ship, when the brave captain was stealing his wife. That day, that humiliation turned him into a Dark One, eventually, yet the pirate who sneered at the cripple and trod him to the ground seemed to think that he was still somehow to blame for the events of that day.

Of course he accepted the challenge - that was what a hero should do, right? He felt no fear. Even with all his dark power the pirate was still a fool - nothing more than a rash boy. A fine couple they made, these two Dark Ones - silly, inept, naive... No special power was needed to best them. Plain brains would do just fine.

Yet everybody was so very concerned about him and his imminent peril. Everyone offered to protect him. Suddenly he became a part of the family, and everyone fussed about his wellbeing. Yet despite the fact that he was now "a hero", not one of them believed in him. Not one of them thought that he stood a chance of winning. They respected and pitied him for his readiness to die.

And She didn't believe in him too. There was such surprise in her eyes when he told her that he'd fight without magical tricks and without anyone's help. Oh it was irony, such irony: she wanted him to become a hero, and he obliged her, but still she only saw him as a weak and cowardly cripple. She actually looked astonished when he said something noble - when he voiced, very carefully and gently, his newfound belief that she fell out of love with him, a belief that grew stronger every second.

"Not wanting me to die is not the same as wanting to be with me", he said.

She looked concerned, and confused, as if it was an unexpected thought.

Yet she did not object.

So he went to face the pirate, feeling silly and strange in his heroic role, acting it up, biding his time, waiting for the moment to do something, anything that would turn the fight in his favor. He sensed that the pirate did not want to kill him - not really, otherwise he would have been dead the instant he stepped on board of the ship. No, the pirate needed him to be alive - to suffer and to fight with again. The pirate was obsessed with him, killing his prey would have been no fun for the deranged seaman - he could understand that. He hated the pirate too - hated him for his ruined life and for taking his son's woman and for being such a blasted fool and for abusing the great power that needed to be treated very carefully.

Perhaps the pirate wanted him to win - he always liked to be beaten by him. Or perhaps luck really played into his hands. Eventually he seized the sword that could kill the Dark One... And he didn't kill him.

He hated him too much to kill him and end his sufferings, that was one reason. And there was another, even more important one.

If he would have killed the Dark Pirate with this sword, he would become the Dark One - again. What was the point of getting rid of his darkness, of becoming a man she asked for, of gaining acceptance and a measure of love from his family if he'd ruin it all in one stroke? Why ruin everything and become a villain in everyone's eyes again? He did that before. He became the Dark One before, for all the good and noble reasons, and nobody remembered his good cause or appreciated it.

To repeat this act would have been stupid, and pointless.

He did not want his power. He did not miss it. Ah, that was not true, of course - not entirely. He did miss it, it was such a big part of his soul for so long. He did miss his magic, but not as much as he missed his wife's love.

If he had that, nothing else would have mattered.

As he stood by the magical well where they were married and where she, guided by Regina, broke his heart so recently, there was hope - insane and wonderful hope in his heart that she would now finally see what she wants in him. He defeated a dangerous enemy. Bested Dark One in a fight. That was much better than desperately throwing magical dust into a bear's mouth. If she wanted a hero, surely he was a hero now.

But she did not want a hero.

She did not know what she wanted. But she definitely didn't want him.

She was cruel enough to come to the meeting and give him hope. He told her that her coming would show her intention to be with him. She came and told him she didn't want him. Why did she came?.. It would have been much simpler and kinder to just stay away. She was cruel enough to justify her decision by referring to his past mistakes. "You broke my heart too many times", she said. She said she needed to protect her own heart now. She accused him of cruelty while being unbearably cruel herself, spoke of past hurt while breaking his heart to pieces; turned all his striving to goodness completely meaningless in one instant...

The brutal injustice of her words brought tears to his eyes.

She saw these tears as a sign of weakness.

She turned on her heels, and walked away from him.

He stood silent, calling her back just once, knowing she wouldn't come.

It was pointless to argue. He had nothing to say. Fate played its cruelest joke on him - again. After all these efforts to change him, after all that nagging that spoilt even the best times they had together, she finally had what she wanted... And she didn't like it.

Be careful what you wish for, for it might come true.

Every time he lost her before, it was his fault. He was unworthy of her; he was a villain; villains don't get happy endings... Now there was no fault of his in what was happening. And that was no consolation at all.

He became a man she wished him to be, and he lost her. He lost everything. The only meaning his life had after his son died just walked away from him - a receding figure in a pink coat, disappearing between the trees.

Did he feel lost? Oh yes. Did he feel angry? Strangely, no. Her happiness was what he always wanted. She saw her happiness away from him... He could accept that. He couldn't blame her.

That's what good, kind people do: they forgive; and he was a good, kind man. That's what people who love truly do: they let their loved ones go; and he loved her truly.

He remembered suddenly how he let her go for the first time, all these years ago; how he sent her away to the village to get straw, expecting to never see her again, and how he watched the empty forest road from the window, mourning his loss, his heart bleeding. He remembered how, as his gloom at her loss deepened, the weather changed - the day that was sunny and bright turned dark and stormy. He was the Dark One then, and the world around reflected his moods.

He was an ordinary man now, and his heart bled. And the sun shined relentlessly above his head, and the day remained blindingly bright.


	55. Chapter 55

55

She was never so lost, confused and miserable in her whole life. Not when her mother died, not when she had her memories taken away; not when He died; not when he rejected her; not when she doubted his love and was sure of his preference for power over her. Not when she pushed him out of town and out of her life. Not when she saw him in a coma, powerless and mortal, struggling for life... Never, never had she felt so bad as when he came back, finally, and she faced him, and realized suddenly and awfully that he is a stranger to her.

No, that was wrong. Not a stranger - she knew him and loved him, she felt compassion and pain at his frailty and weakness, but this was abstract human love, and natural compassion and general pain that any decent person would feel for the weak and helpless. It was not for Him she felt those things for, as hard as she looked she couldn't see Him anymore in this man he became now.

And there was one thing, which she did not feel towards him, and it was devastating...

She felt no attraction.

She used to be drawn to him like a moth to the light. Ever since the moment they met, why, even since the moment she first heard of him from Princess Anna, she was attracted - bewitched; she wanted to know him, to be near him always, she wanted him to talk to her and to touch her; she wanted to change him and to exercise power over him - power of the dagger as well as her female charms. She wanted to see passion in his eyes, wanted his voice to catch at the sound of her name; she wanted to feel her insides grow warm and wet as she imagined his touch; she wanted to melt in his arms. Why, just a few days ago she sat at his bedside flushed and ashamed for, despite her nagging worries about his declining health, despite her fear that the last petal would fall from the magical rose before she'd find a way to wake him up she caught herself fantasizing about how she'd feel when he does wake up, and how he'd press his lips to hers, and she'd touch his tongue, and he'd sigh ruggedly and draw her to him, and they'd be reunited at last - right here, on this camp-bed which always served them so well.

And all that was gone.

He stood before her, that man she loved so much and promised to love forever. He touched her hand. He held her close. It was the same man - the same body she knew so well and loved to give herself to with total abandon.

And she didn't feel it - the pull, the passion. It was gone.

How could it happen? It was such an imminent part of herself, she never lost it, even when she lost her memories. When did it happen? It was there when she waited for him to wake up, and kissed his unresponsive lips. It was there when she went away to Camelot, castigating herself for abandoning him yet realizing that, if she helplessly stayed by his immobile body much longer she would simply go mad. It was there when she returned - her memories were gone yet again, but her love for him remained. She grew impatient and restless. When Dark Swan kidnapped him, robbing them of their reunion, she snapped at the good ones who refused to help him - she really flew off the handle, outraged by their smugness, by their inability to worry about anyone but themselves and their dear ones. She searched her books and his books feverishly, trying to find clues and hints on how to save him - how to be reunited with him again.

And here he was, right in front of her, trembling on a chair by the library doors, looking at her with love, telling her things that she always wanted to hear from him - apologizing, professing her the most important person in his life, dedicating himself to her entirely.

And instead of throwing herself into his arms, these arms she missed so much, and feeling his long-awaited kiss she just sat there opposite him, and hesitantly held out her hand for him to grasp.

It must have been the shock, the sheer unexpectedness of his return, she told herself. It must have been confusion - the second he came back, things started happening, they were attacked, they tried to hide and to escape, there was simply no time to think and to feel and to reconnect.

Then, in the woods, when they were driving away from town in his car and she realized he had no intention of showing any bravery, she felt pissed - really angry. It was not like him to run away so easily, without a fight, without some cunning scheme of revenge stored up his sleeve. He was just running away from danger as any other man would - as an ordinary man would.

But he was not ordinary! She could never love an ordinary man!.. She always knew he was special, and she suffered because his dark magic was his handicap, but she knew - she always knew that darkness could be chased out of him, and there would be no darkness, just his very own, very special soul left for her to connect to. So where was this soul now? Where did his cunning and cleverness and wit and wisdom go? Perhaps they would come back if he became a hero; perhaps that was what was lacking.

So she had to urge him - to force him into action. And the only way she knew from many times before was to confront him: you change, or everything is over.

She left him there, in the middle or the road, almost exactly on the same spot where she forced him out of town with the dagger.

She walked away, fuming with anger, and unsure - she didn't know if she were angry with him, or with herself.

He justified her expectations, to put it mildly. He came back for her. He fought the horrible black bear. He won.

She ran into his arms, as she did before in those same woods. He held her close, and she felt his warm breath and his tears on her hair. His body shuddered as he felt her closeness... And instead of being exited she felt embarrassed, and instead of turning her face up so that her lips would finally meet his, she hid it on his shoulder and froze, unable to truly return his embrace.

What was wrong with her? It was him - her lover, her husband. Strong and resourceful as ever. Tender and loving as ever. She felt warm and comforted in his arms. She belonged there... As a child belongs in father's embrace.

He turned stern and cool and collected as they went to the Dark Swan and he was faced with the task of pulling the magical sword from the stone. As he was about to touch the blade that might have killed him if he were unworthy, she thought she'd die - she was so afraid... Why was she afraid? Because she didn't believe in him? But she had always, always believed in him before. Even in darkest of times. Even as she pushed him away she believed, deep in her heart, that he'd come back.

So why didn't she believe in him now?

He proved himself worthy of the sword - he pulled it out of the stone in one swift, gracious movement, and for an instant something stirred in her: some of her former excitement, some of that constant trill that his mere presence always brought her. But by the time they went home it somehow evaporated.

They walked into the house, which they shared for such a brief time. She unlocked the door - he didn't have his keys. He limped slightly behind her - she heard heavy thuds of his cane, and registered his uneven steps. She glanced at him, briefly.

His face was tired and old. His eyes were guarded. He was exhausted, and weak, and human. He looked every inch an old man who came home after a long spell in a hospital. So ordinary. So frail.

She knew what a normal, loving reunited couple would have done the moment they crossed the threshold. They would have banged the door closed, and turned to face each other, and kiss deeply, and bring back together bodies that had gone without each other for much too long. She wanted that. Didn't she dream about it constantly for the past weeks? But it was somehow impossible to actually do it. It felt odd to touch his face now, and offer her mouth for a kiss. He has been through a lot, and every line on his face screamed it. He needed rest, not passionate embraces.

So she went forward towards the kitchen and said she'd make some tea. And he followed her meekly, and again she heard his heavy limp, and a thud of his cane.

It was unbearable to see him like this. Unbearable, and strange, and confusing, for she already saw him limping and frail, and that never put her off. So what changed now?

He seemed to sense her mood - he never tried to touch her; well, he never ever presumed on her, even in the past.

Eventually the damned tea was ready, and they set down at the table.

They talked. That was one good thing about this horrible night - they talked. He started with apologizing for the fate of her chipped cup - he had to break it to escape from Emma. She reassured him it was all right. He said he had many more things to apologize for - he hurt her so many times. But, said he, he always had his reasons and, hesitantly and slowly, much as he was explaining his dependence of magic once in her library, he told her. He told her why it seemed essential for him to get free from the dagger, and why he didn't mind the price this action had. He told her of his resentment of the affair between Emma and her pirate, and she understood it. He apologized, many times over, for not sharing his plans with her; he said he always thought she'd understand.

"Perhaps I would have understood", she said, and he smiled at her with such warm, loving, grateful eyes.

That would have been a perfect moment to kiss him.

But she didn't move.

He went on talking, falteringly, not lingering on details - they were mostly painful. He explained how incredibly hurt he was to learn that Regina gave Bae's flat to her lover. How his heart failed him, and he had to find a way to remedy that.

"Well, you already know all about that", he said.

She nodded, numbly, remembering her behavior by the well. Of course she was under Regina's spell, but still - it must have hurt him terribly.

He carefully and studiously avoided any mention of her fling with Will. She was grateful to him for that.

Hours grew small. The sky behind the window would start getting lighter soon, she knew it. And still she hadn't kissed him. There were many, many opportunities during that night; but they haven't used any.

Finally, there was awkward silence.

He gave her a long and sad look, and his familiar twisted smile - a very bitter version of it. Then something seemed to close behind his eyes as he said: "You know what? I don't think I can sleep before I check how things in the shop are... Something might be missing after those attacks. I think I will get down there now".

How kind, how patient with her he was! He saw her uneasiness - he offered her a way out, a temporary respite.

She blushed, feeling ashamed of herself and at the same time slightly annoyed by his selfless gesture.

"How could you go there now? You must be deadly tired. I know I am!"

That sad smile, again. Those wise, thousand-year old eyes, again. "Go to bed. I will see you in the morning".

And with that, he limped out of the house, carefully closing the door behind him. She didn't hear the car - he must have simply walked away.

And she was left alone - to think and to cry.

So that's what he was like when there was no darkness - no magic. Sad. Old. Kind. Irritatingly good to her. Too good to be true - as if he was pretending, as if he was tricking her again. She remembered the last time she felt that way towards him - was so disappointed and resentful of him. When she was Lacey, and he tried to court her and showed her only his good sides, and it all felt forced and false and incredibly humiliating. She felt cheated then - cheated out of knowing the real him.

But he was not cheating her now. That was truly him. There would be no exiting dark surprises now. He was kind, and gentle, and loving, and he needed no urging from her to be good - he was good on his own. He did not need her light to guide him - he had light of his own. Did he really need her at all, now? What was her role in his life now? Who was she, anyway? She used to be the wife of the Dark One, the beauty who loved the beast - her fight for him was part of her nature. And now the fight was over, it was won without her help, and she felt lost - misplaced.

She always felt angry and pained when he rejected her attempts to change him. When she tried to break his curse with a kiss of true love, she was outraged by his cowardice - he wouldn't let her, for he loved his power, and he didn't believe in their love. She was strong and she saw the greater good then, and he was weak and cowardly and wouldn't face the truth of their love...

And she was right - he told her she was right. But now, as she sat at the table with empty teacups on it, and he with his kind old human face and his limp was gone to the shop a terrible, terrible thought pierced her.

What if he knew, even then, in the Enchanted Forest, what would happen if she changed him? She said she wanted him to be an ordinary man. What if he felt - what if he knew she wouldn't like him?

But that rendered her whole life meaningless. All that fighting, all these sufferings they brought each other. All her reproofs. All that was in vain - it was pointless. They both didn't really need it.

No, she couldn't be right with this horrible thought. She fell in love with the beast he used to be, and she wanted to save him for his own sake - because his power didn't make him happy. He suffered. He wanted to be set free. And he was. He is free now, and of course it is better for him. Naturally she feels awkward around him - she just doesn't know him yet. It is the same as she felt before the first curse broke, when she just walked into his shop and he greeted her with a face crumpled with tenderness yet completely unfamiliar to her. She'd get accustomed. She'd know him, and love him, and she'd rein in her pride and teach herself to remember that she is not superior to him anymore - he is a better, or at least an equally good person. He needs no saving and no guidance.

They have been through so many awful things, and still they loved each other. Surely they would survive a change for the better?

All these thoughts cheered her up considerably, and in the morning she went down to his shop with a bright smile and stood by his side, ready to face their new life.

He looked incredibly tired, as if he didn't sleep a wink during that night. But she had no time to ask him, for the Dark Pirate walked into the shop and challenged him to a duel. He accepted the challenge, to her infinite horror and the world became a frenzy of activity. All the heroes stood by his side, looking for ways to help him - to protect him. And through all that he sat with a weird resigned smile on his face - completely calm, unruffled, slightly amused by everyone's concern. He was so sure of himself, such a hero! And she felt that odd frustration again - Lacey's anger at being duped and cheated. He couldn't be what he seems - so good, so brave, so... Independent.

But he was. And that was what irritated the most.

It was him, her husband. His face, his hands, his eyes. Yet he was a complete stranger to her - she didn't know what to say or do, everything sounded wrong, every word jarred and yet he met all her gaffs with that kind, indulgent parental smile of his.

It was terrible, so see a stranger with the face of your loved one. It was torture almost as cruel as seeing him on deathbed. Was that the way he felt about her when she was Lacey, she wondered? It must have been. Yet he did all he could to keep her by his side - to be with her. He knew that her real self was somewhere inside that familiar body that behaved strangely.

So why couldn't she be like him?

He chased them away, finally, with all their useless efforts to help him and humiliating attempts to protect him. And, before going away to face his probable death, he stopped her for a moment and told her in his kindly, fatherly way that he knows what's in her heart. He never said it aloud - never said "I know you don't love my anymore". He gave her a choice - delicately, gently, as was his custom with her always. If she saw a future for them, let her come to the wishing well presently, he offered. If she didn't, all she had to do was stay away. No need to say anything.

What he asked of her was faith in them - her famous ability to hope for the best. As simple as that.

So noble she was speechless. So noble she felt ashamed, and angry, and lost.

And then he went away to fight his hopeless fight.

And she was left alone with herself, and every second spent apart from him she felt fear, and loss, and confusion, and anger. She lost herself because he changed so much. She didn't know who she was anymore. How could he be so good now? How could he act such a hero when he was the darkest of villains so recently? It all felt like a lie, and it wasn't, and she felt bad about doubting him, and she felt hurt by the change.

It felt as if he abandoned her, she realized suddenly. As if he died - the man she loved was gone just as completely as if he died.

How could he leave her - she loved him so much, she forgave him everything, how could he come and change so much and ruin all that?

She knew it was a bad way to feel, that it was wrong. She knew she must make an effort - it was all a temporary thing, she was just too confused. She must make an effort, she must give them a chance. This combination of goodness and frailty, this demonstration of bravery and truthfulness - she would get accustomed to them. He still loved her. He still needed her. She just had to discover a new way of feeling that.

She was determined to do the right thing when she walked up to the appointed meeting place, to the wishing well - to the place where they were married and where she broke his heart. She was determined to show him the hope he needed - the only thing he asked for.

But when she saw his delighted face, his eyes shining with joy of seeing her, his face alight with hope, such a wonderful man, such a good, kind man, she knew what she needed to do. She needed to tell him the truth. She owed it to him. It was the basest, meanest thing to deceive this man - to give him false hope.

And the only hope for the future she could give him there and then would have been false.

She hardly knew what she was saying as she rejected his love - she tried to voice her confusion and her pain and it all sounded wrong. She wanted to say that he felt too good for her now, but it all came out as old reproofs and accusations. And she was punished for that - punished the moment her crime was committed.

She had to see the light go out of his eyes, his face fall, his mouth sag. To hear that old, familiar note of desperation in his voice as he called her name - just once - to her retreating back.

She didn't turn back. She was too ashamed for that.

She went to their house to collect her things - not that there were many. She knew he wouldn't show up there. He was busy being a hero. And if he would go anywhere when heroic deeds were done, he'd go to his shop. It was always much more of a home to him than this big unfriendly house.

She knew him so well.

She spent the night at her father's, avoiding his worried looks, refusing to explain anything. She needed to think - to decide what she'd do now when He gave her her precious freedom.

When she received his text message, urging her to come and meet him at the shop, she was equally glad - she missed him already, and yet annoyed: that was so like him, to do something noble, like setting her free, and then to call her back almost at once. But when she came, he made no attempt to win her back. He didn't utter a single word of reproof, hadn't given her one tearful heart-melting stare. He was collected, almost businesslike, and humorous, though very warm and gentle, as he told her that he arranged everything so that she could get her wish of old - to see the wide world - granted.

He explained to her business details of the journey out of town he planned for her - things about magic for crossing the town-line, things about banks outside and credit cards and rented apartments in New York. He gave her keys to his car.

"You are a smart girl. You will figure it all out in no time. Now go".

She was stunned by his kindness, and slightly disbelieving. And hurt - as if he rejected her again, as he did in his castle: "Go away, I don't need you anymore". But then she remembered that she was the one who did the rejecting now. And, unlike her, he put no parting spells on her - he did nothing to claim her as his own.

As she gave him a final hug, she felt him give way - his resolve and calm seemed to desert him, momentarily. His embrace was slightly too tight and too desperate, and she though she heard his stifled sob.

Her heart gave a painful lurch.

"Is anything wrong?"

He gave her the brightest, the falsest of smiles as he reassured her that everything was just fine.

As she walked away, she suddenly remembered very vividly the day when he sent her away to get some straw, and she came back to kiss him. It was such a wonderful day, they talked so easily and freely, and then she said something that changed his mood. She was bewildered as to what it was then, but she knew now. They were flirting, and she playfully said that he is not as ugly as he thinks he is. Silly, careless girl... She didn't realize she loved him yet, but he already loved her, and her words must have crushed him - he understood that she doesn't return his love; doesn't even think of him in those terms - he is just a not-so-ugly monster to her. He became so pensive and sad then, and that was when he sent her away. "Do you expect me to come back? - On the contrary, I expect I shall never see you again". He gave her one of his kind and remote smiles then, and his green skin and soft curls glistened in the light of the setting sun.

She didn't think he was ugly then - not at all. She thought him mesmerizingly appealing. But he didn't know that. She never told him how she felt.

He believed she didn't love him, and he set her free. Just as today.

She felt a pang of irrational regret. He changed now, changed for the better, darkness didn't haunt him anymore. So why did she miss so much the man he was then - that tormented and adorable creature, that sad lizard with black claws and kind eyes, that monster that loved her - that man she fell in love with?

She fell in love with him for a reason: she fell in love with him because behind his grotesque face and in the depth of his tortured soul she saw a good and kind and noble man he was. She stubbornly came back to him then, and she was deserting him now.

So who was the monster here?

On that day outside of his castle it took her a long time to decide on her next course of action, and she walked away because she convinced herself that he was playing with her - and because she felt hurt and unappreciated, like a child whose toy was taken away. She walked away saying, "So you don't need me? Well, I will show you how miserable you'd actually be without me!"

She knew full well he does need her now, and knew just how much. She didn't need Regina to walk past her to set her mind right. Yet still, despite the absence of dark witches in her immediate vicinity, she had the oddest feeling of doom around her. She sat in her - his - car, thinking, calling back to mind his face, his eyes, slightest inflections of his voice. And then a sudden coldness gripped her heart.

Everybody said their story was like an old fairy tale of beauty and the beast. So what happened in this story when the beast set his beloved free? He died - she remembered the exact phrase from the book: "He lay down on the ground under the bush where the magical rose used to bloom, and he died of broken heart".

It was nonsense. His heart was fine now. He told her nothing was wrong.

And he lied. She knew him so well - of course she knew he lied.

Was she insane? How could she walk away from him - from Him - so easily? She knew that once she crossed the town-line she would never find it again - was she really planning to just go away? After everything that happened to them? After losing and finding him so many times? After seeing him die, as a hero, after bringing him back to life at terrible cost? Why was she sitting here, in this car, never even putting keys to ignition, if she were ready to leave him behind - if she didn't need him or love him anymore? Why did she spend her time remembering his old magical looks, her young love for him, if everything was over now?

She had read many books, but never in any one of them she had seen anything as fascinating as he was to her. So he showed her a new unfamiliar side of himself. How could she leave that unexplored? How could she give up so easily?

Ah, these were just words and thoughts. There was a bigger, deeper and simpler truth about what was holding her in place - what was prodding her to come back.

She just couldn't imagine living thorough a day without seeing his face. His lined, old, his darling face, with his sad and dark eyes that could go flat and empty and deep and warm in a span of a second.

She pictured his face, just now in the shop. Felt his hands, warm and dry and shaking slightly as he gave her the keys. She felt his embrace, urgent and gentle, his catching breath on her skin, and saw his eyes, filled with love and regret yet still smiling, as he said: "Now go and have a life".

What life could she have without him?

She knew why she still sat in her car, unmoving, even though hours passed since he sent her away.

It was because she didn't want to go anywhere. She wanted to be with him.

Sound of a text message on her phone caught her by such surprise she nearly jumped. It was from Henry.

"Belle, were'r u and grandpa? Need you around. We all r alive, but just barely. Hook dead, Mum all in tears".

Her hand trembled as she pushed "dial" and, upon hearing his husky teenage "Hello?", asked: "What do you mean you are alive? Were you going to die?.."

And he told her. About the Dark Ones coming back from Hell and marking everyone for death instead of them - her husband included. About Hook's sacrifice. About general commotion and grief.

She hang up, finally, promising to get around to them eventually.

She sat for a couple more minutes, numbly.

So the beast really was going to die after he set his beauty free. He called her to his shop to say farewell. He sent her away to shelter her from danger. He was sparing her from grief that he knew, in his infinite wisdom, she would feel upon his death - if she knew of it. And still he smiled and said "may be you'd come back one day", and his unnaturally bright voice quivered only slightly, and all that time he knew he is seeing her for the last time, and she is seeing him for the last time, oh heartless, lying, noble bastard, how could he be so kind and so cruel at the same time, so devious and selfless and so stupid in his stubborn wish to push her away for her own good!

Well it seemed he didn't change so much, after all. This infuriating creature that always surprised and puzzled her was still there, behind this kind old gentleman's face.

She run back to the shop, slammed the door as she walked it. She feared irrationally that, while everyone else survived, he'd still be somehow dead.

But he was fine - he was sitting at his working desk, with a decanter of brandy by his side... Well-well, this new version of her husband apparently wouldn't have objected to Lacey's drinking as much as the old version did.

He looked at her with astonishment as she run up to him.

"You lied to me again!.."

His face looked so tired - he was tired of her reproofs, he heard them so many times, and they were so glaringly unjust right now. His head jerked back slightly as he prepared to explain himself, yet again. But she didn't come to reproach him or preach to him - not today.

Her lips went straight to his, and her mouth opened hungrily to meet his tongue.

His breath smelled of brandy, and that was unusual and trilling.

His eyes were hesitant, doubtful, as if he wanted to tell her something - to warn her of something. She didn't give him time - she didn't want any words just as she didn't want any world beyond his embrace. She just wanted him, and told him so.

The intensity of his kiss was frightening - he was gulping her in, ready to devour her, as if he couldn't believe she was real and wanted to drink this brief illusion of her presence to the last drop. Just as she wanted - just as she needed.

No more mildness and politeness, no more noble choices, no more hesitations and tears. He was asserting his right of possession, and she was succumbing to him, and it felt wonderful, and she felt the man she loved breaking out of the cage of his apparent frailty and meekness, making his way back to her.

So he was there inside all along - it just took her time to see him. His changed soul made her temporary forget just how much she loved his body. But he was setting everything right now.

He pressed her close to him, and she felt his familiar hardness, and she shut her eyes in blissful oblivion as dark, smothering desire engulfed her.

She missed him so much - so much. And now she finally had him back.


	56. Chapter 56

56

Bitter and sweet. Brandy tasted bitter and sweet on his lips, burning his throat, yet warming him up inside - chasing away, if only briefly, the great coldness that took hold of him now that he was back to where he started - now that he was his old self again.

He didn't drink for years - ever since the curse broke, in fact. Before that, for those twenty-eight years that he spent in a self-imposed time loop, he drank every night; moderately, no more than a glass or two, but every night. He kept a decanter of brandy in his bedroom, in a chest near the window, and poured himself a measure every night.

Drinking was his only way to fall asleep, otherwise he would keep awake all night waiting for that elusive moment when today becomes yesterday, trying to figure out what was wrong with him if he kept living through ever-repeating day half-remembering some other time and place - some other version of himself. He had to sleep, otherwise these incessant thoughts would have driven him insane. But he couldn't sleep - not without a drink.

He did drink back in the old times, too - back in the Enchanted Forest, where he used to carry a flask with him always. He drank to chase away his doubts then - he drank to make himself forget that his quest for his son might prove futile. As it did eventually. Later, when he thought her dead, he drunk in vain hope to ease that pain.

But since the moment the curse broke and She came back into his life, he never drunk again - not even when she became Lacey and urged him to join her in her drunken merriment. The only alcohol that touched his lips was that glass of vine he drank with Zelena in his deluded attempt to seduce her and to take back his dagger. Otherwise, never. Not even when Bae died. Not even when he saw his wife kiss another man. He didn't need that false consolation, that brief oblivion, which brandy brought. He didn't want to be consoled - he needed his grief to be sharp and cutting. He didn't want to forget - strangely, he cherished everything that happened to him.

And he didn't need to drink because there was something in his life that would console and reward and alleviate all darkness that he would have chased away with brandy... He had her love. Even in darkest hours of his life, he had her love. Bitter and sweet and strange and impossible - he still had it.

Not any more.

So bitter and sweet brandy became his friend again, and was helping him to come to terms with what happened - with what he had become. As soon as he walked into his shop after that embarrassing scene by the lake, after all these futile sacrifices and tears, he magicked his decanter into the shop and settled in the back room to brood. He was a lonely beast now, just like in old times, and brooding is what solitary beasts do.

He did not want to go to his house - didn't want to feel its' emptiness yet again now that she was gone, and this time indeed forever. He felt much better in the shop. He didn't need such a big house anyway, just as he didn't need a large estate back then...

"I need a caretaker for my rather large estate".

Oh no, no, no, he wouldn't go there now. He had plenty of things to think of apart from lost love.

So he sat there, silently drinking, recalling events of the day.

The inner workings of a human soul are very strange. Only this morning he was one of the good ones - a hero, proven and accepted, though definitely uncomfortable in the role. Only this morning, observing the death mark of Dark Ones on his wrist, he felt doomed and desperate and frightened, but he also... uplifted and enlightened. He was doomed to die, that much was certain, and his heart broke at the thought that his grandson was among the marked too, but one thing gave him peace. He knew that She was safe, and he knew that it is in his power to save her - to send her out of town, out of his life, out of harm's way - forever. She would go away, she would have a life, she would know nothing of what happened here in town, and darkness and isolation and doom that seemed to follow his family, to haunt his bloodline, would be gone from her life. She would be free, and she would have the life and the light and the happiness he always wanted for her. And knowing that it is so he could rest in peace.

No rest for the wicked, though - that's how they say. They also say that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Well, he didn't go to hell. Not yet.

She came when he summoned her, and he could see her irritation: she thought that he called her to try and win her back. Nothing was farther from his thoughts - he needed her to get away as quickly and as far as possible. He kept everything secret: he knew that if she learned of his and everyone else's imminent death her stupid heroic instincts would kick in, and she would insist of staying in town, and then goodness knows what might happen. She would do something silly and brave and she would get hurt. Even if not, she would suffer from horror and loss. She needed to be spared all that. So he was businesslike and bright and even slightly formal with her - he cringed at how false his words sounded as he chased her away with light banter and forced smiles. But she accepted everything - he was convincing enough for her, it seemed. If anything, she probably found him too bright - she looked bemused. No wonder - last time she saw him he was crying in the forest, and now he was chattering like a mad blackbird.

There was just one moment when he nearly broke. He gave her a final embrace, and as she walked into his arms for a second, for a brief instant it seemed that everything was as it used to be. He felt her shape, so familiar yet ever exiting, and her warmth, and the scent of her hair and skin invaded him, and everything she was and everything she meant to him seemed so close suddenly, and yet he was saying farewell, and he would never see her again, and her eyes would never smile at him, and all light would be gone from his life, in this world and the one beyond the grave. He felt her, and his loss, so intensely that he couldn't control a sob - convulsive, soft, bitter and sweet.

She drew away from him and asked him if anything was wrong. Always such a kind and polite girl, his little princess.

He shooed her away.

He needed to be left alone to cry freely - to prepare for the end.

As always, he was interrupted. These people never lost their habit of coming to him with their troubles - even now, when he had no power to help them.

Emma and Regina came to him and told him their plan. Dark Swan wanted to gather all the powers of all Dark Ones into the sword, and then kill herself with it, thus destroying all darkness... well, forever. All the Dark Ones would be gone then, all people marked for death spared, and everyone would live happily ever after - mourning their loss, naturally, but safe and heroic.

It did sound like a good plan. No one voiced it, but it was obviously based on his example - on his suicide on the Main Street, when he killed his father and himself with his dagger. He disappeared into the light, the dagger was gone, and darkness was gone - it seemed that this is what happens when the Dark One commits suicide with his magical blade. Well, this is where the catch of the plan lay, and he knew it much better than anyone. When he died, the dagger did not disappear - it went back into the vault of Dark Ones, his soul trapped in it. And when he died, darkness was not gone - not even temporarily, let alone forever. It just receded, biding its time, waiting for a suitable moment to rage again.

That was the crucial point, the essential weakness of the plan. Darkness never disappeared, it could not be destroyed - it was there, present in the world as long as the world existed. The first Dark One was supposedly that temperamental wench Merlin loved, Nimue - but darkness itself existed before and apart from her, that ancient lady just gave it a body to inhibit. Darkness was one of the basics of the world's foundation, just as light was. How could one destroy a force of nature, an element of universe? None of them thought of destroying the rain or the air or the gravity - well, trying to get rid of darkness was just as absurd.

Darkness couldn't be destroyed or tamed - how could they forget what happened when his heart was cleared of it, and it roamed free, attacking everyone it found appealing? What made them think the same would not happen again - that, having lost a body, darkness would not immediately seek another host, and the whole damned circle would not start again.

Darkness couldn't be destroyed, or tamed - not unless it was in a body that knew how to deal with it. He looked at Emma, so determined to sacrifice herself, and thought of just how inane and helpless a Dark One she proved to be: weak, sentimental, girly; she proved to be just as unable to hold dark magic as light - it took her immense trouble to accept the power. The pirate, her lover, was even worse - silly, impulsive, uncontrolled; just as vindictive and rash as he used to be when human.

He mentally cast a glance at all the people that would be open to darkness once it was free from the sword. All of them heroes, none of them blameless, even his grandson. A teenage Dark One, open to all turmoil of his age? Charming, the handsomest and the most stupid of Dark Ones? Snow White, the most uncompromising of them? Regina? Oh, she would be able to hold it. But she just found a semblance of happiness - devoid of it, she would be the most vindictive of Dark Ones.

He chuckled inwardly as he imagined Dark Dwarfs. Dark Grumpy? Dark Doc? Perhaps Seven Dark Ones - this lot seemed to do everything collectively.

There was only one man among them capable of doing what was necessary - of taking the darkness in, and keeping it under control. After all, he did it for hundreds of years, and nobody suffered - or at least not too much.

And he was the only one of them who had nothing and no one to lose.

He never said a word to heroic ladies - he didn't want to complicate things and to frighten them unnecessarily. He wasn't even sure the whole thing would work. He nodded, apparently giving Emma's plan his approval, and walked into the back room where he kept the sword. He gave it a brief look. It held the names of Emma and her lover, obviously binding its' power to them. Would the power know where to go once it was set free? The more he thought of it, the more he was sure it would never, ever be destroyed. In the past, darkness always found the most suitable heart - the one ready for it, the one broken and hopeless. God knew his heart was broken and devoid of hope - he had lost everything. But he was supposed to be a hero now. Would that interfere?

He had to do something, anything to lay his claim on the blade - to make a very uncertain thing that little bit surer. He still had some potions of his making left - they held traces of his magic. That would, hopefully, be enough for the darkness.

He didn't even look which potion he poured on the blade - the finding potion, most probably, he had a lot of them in stock. It didn't matter. The maker's power was the only thing that mattered.

He gave Emma the sword, and went along with her to meet his fate - whatever it would prove to be.

Things went wrong, things went ugly there on the lakeside. Dark Ones torturing Swan, Hook stepping in to save her - of course he would, the sentimental fool.

He watched, apprehensive.

Hook gathered the powers in the blade. Emma, sobbing, pierced her lover's heart.

His old self would have said that it served them right for wronging Bae. His new self was genuinely moved.

Poor children. They did not deserve it. No one deserves such sufferings.

He once gave himself to darkness to save the children at the frontiers of war. He wondered if he would be able to pull this stunt again.

The sword turned to dust in Emma's shaking hand. The pirate collapsed on the ground. Everyone watched, horrified.

He stood still. He listened to whispers, and watched the shadows of the forest, wondering if the darkness would come - knowing in his bones that it would.

And then he felt it - this sudden and deep coldness that burned from the inside, that current of incredible, unimaginable force invading his body, taking possession of it, turning his flesh into a mystical new substance, and settling there with familiar comfort.

There was a satisfied sigh in his head, and a silent whisper: "Hello again. I've missed you".

"Shut up", he commanded, just as silently.

It giggled, but obeyed.

His hand suddenly felt heavy, and as he looked he saw that he was holding his dagger. Only it changed now - the blade was black, the letters of his name silver. This dagger held the power of all Dark Ones now - not just his.

He was the most powerful wizard in the world now. His dark power was limitless.

And he controlled it. Haven't lost a bit of his form. Apparently this is something one's body cannot forget. He could do this job.

He did the right thing.

He remembered how in the alternative universe that inept little author wrote for him, the one where heroes became villains and vice versa, he was faced with a terrible choice: he, the hero, had to harm an innocent woman to set in motion the force of her sacrifice. He had to become a villain to break a curse - that change in him was necessary so that the world would be balanced.

He had to do it again. He probably wasn't much of a hero here, in this world. But his most - his only heroic act was to relinquish his goodness and embrace his darkness.

"Keep telling yourself that, Dark One", the voice giggled.

"I am right, and we both know it". The voice fell silent again.

Yes, that's what he was: a man who turns to darkness to save the light.

To save all the children on the frontiers.

He could accept that. He could justify that. That was not what made him sit in his closed shop and brood and drink.

Something else tore at his heart, making it bleed, making the sky outside grow dark.

He could not be saved. He cannot be changed. He has to remain dark, forever, so that everyone around him would have a chance to live happily. And that means that all his love for Her was futile. All his striving for light. All her struggles for him. All her faith and hope. She believed that he can become a good man; but he was not meant to be good. The man behind the monster had to remain hidden forever.

That couldn't be undone.

So it was all in vain. His love. Her love. All in vain. All a big, blinding, bright illusion.

Thank goodness she is out of town and would never know all this! Thank goodness she is spared this pain.

He poured himself another glass of brandy. Who cares if he gets completely plastered? No one. He is alone, now and forever. He is a difficult man to love. He is the Dark One. He can do anything.

Bitter and sweet, brandy tasted bitter and sweet on his lips.

Doorbell rang, and he barked furiously: "Get out! We are closed!"

And then, disregarding his order and his rage, a ray of light rushed into the room, and with it, the bound - the magical bound of their love that he thought extinct blazed back to life, stunning him.

She came back - she run back to him, stammering something, trying to justify her return, and then just threw herself into his arms, clutching him hungrily, and accused him of lying, thus bringing familiar and welcome sting of being subjected to injustice into his mind, and looked at him with love that he believed lost forever.

Shaken as he was, he did try to talk to her - to explain to her... But he only got as far as to utter a husky: "Belle..."

She never gave him a chance to continue - she shut him up with a kiss.

And it all came back - everything she denied him when he was a good man, a hero, all her passion, all her surrendering and assaulting tenderness, it all came back. Her mouth opened to let him in, her eyes were half closed and her breathing harsh, her body melted into his, and he scented her excitement, her wetness, her need for him, and his eyes went dark, and his mind went blank, and his heart was torn in two as he kissed her and screamed silently: "Darker, dearie, much darker... This is the man you fell in love with. There is nothing more. No hope. No light".

He had her then and there, on the floor - it was impossible to stop, and neither of them wanted to. Things came full circle - he was dark again, and they were in love again - inseparable, bounded. And every touch trilled, and every kiss pierced the heart, and every movement of their bodies brought their souls together.

She fell asleep in his arms and, as he cradled her, he thought: she must never know. It would kill her. It would destroy her. She must never know that all was in vain - that she could only love him when he is a monster, that she will never save him; that he will never change.

So, however much his all-powerful self wanted to transport them into the house so that they could share their bridal bed once again, for this reunion was akin to a second wedding night, he resisted the temptation.

He waited a bit, cherishing her closeness, and tickled her nose gently with a tip of his finger: "Come on, sleepy head. We cannot spend the whole night on the floor of the unlocked shop. I assume you did not lock the door behind you?.."

She looked up at him, and smiled, and her eyes where shining: "I missed that. Why weren't you your old quipping self before?"

He raised an eyebrow: "That, my beautiful Belle, is a secret. Come one, or my back would go stiff. I am an old man, remember?"

She giggled, but got up obediently, and they struggled into their clothes, which suffered from being torn from bodies hastily, but he resisted the urge to repair them or magic them new ones. They stumbled out of the shop, and got into the car, and drove slowly, because it is impossible to drive fast when you are kissing every next minute. And back at the house they banged the door shut and started kissing violently right there in the hall - as they should have had the first night after his return. And they laughed at the idea of having tea, and went upstairs into their bedroom, kissing on every step so that they nearly didn't make it to the bed. But they did, eventually.

And as she spread her body for him and he stood on his knees between her legs, running his hands across her damp and hot skin, and as she sighed and bit her lips and whispered his name and as her fingernails dug into his back, urging him closer, driving him into her, he never closed his eyes, and they seemed to sting from the light, for she was radiant to him - as she would always be radiant to him. As he repossessed her and made her his own and gave himself to her one thought invaded his mind:

"She must never, ever know..."

She came back. She loved him again. His happy ending was returned to him, magically and only now, when his heart was full of her, did he realize how empty it was before. Just as once upon a time in his castle, when his love for her bloomed, shy and daring, and he was changing and yet coming to know himself and finding his place in the world. His happiness was immense and bitter then, and it was devastatingly sad and sweet now.

Many, many things would be like then, now. Because he was what he was, and she was what she was, and they loved each other - the way they were.

Such happiness must have a price.

He would pay anything. He has nothing else but her - surely he would be able to pay any price.

She moved up so as to be closer to him, and her breasts pressed to his chest, and he shuddered inside her, suddenly remembering how he used to dream about her: naked and shy and wild monster ravishingly her - drowning in her.

They are who they are, and things are how they should be - how they always should have been.

He closed her mouth with his in a slow and deep kiss, and her lips tasted bitter and sweet.


End file.
